


Entanglement

by linaerys



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-16
Updated: 2006-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linaerys/pseuds/linaerys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The movie is Alfred Hitchcock’s <i>Notorious</i>. For those who don't know the story . . . Ingrid Bergman (John) is the hard-partying (slutty and a bit alcoholic is implied) daughter (son) of a traitor/Nazi sympathizer who is tried and sent to prison. The US government recruits him to spy on some Germans living in Brazil. Cary Grant (Rodney) is the man who recruits him and they end up falling in love. But then Cary Grant's (Rodney's) bosses reveal the real reason they recruited Ingrid Bergman (John): she (he) used to be involved with one of their targets and they want her (him) to renew the relationship to get their intel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the reel_sga challenge. Thank you very much to [](http://zellieh.livejournal.com/profile)[**zellieh**](http://zellieh.livejournal.com/) for the fantastic beta!

  
**Part 1.**

 **Washington, DC. 1947.**

Caldwell slapped the dossier down on Rodney’s lab bench. His lab was deep in the basement of an anonymous building in Northern Virginia, and had no windows or any other way to tell the time, but Rodney neither noticed nor cared what time it was, and if Caldwell was here, then it was between the hours of nine and five. He didn’t work late. The folder jarred the delicate bit of wiring he’d been working on and the crystal emitted a faint spark.

“Did it occur to you how incredibly bad I would be at this sort of project?” Rodney asked without opening the folder. Caldwell had approached him about the task before.

“That has been taken into consideration, yes.”

“Well, consider it again. I’m the worst bluffer in the history of—whatever. I can’t be a spy.”

Caldwell rubbed his forehead, as if talking to Rodney was giving him a headache. Rodney hoped that was the case—maybe Caldwell wouldn’t bug him as much if that were true. “You’re not going to be a spy, so much as a handler.”

“I’m not great at handling people either.” Which Caldwell should have known. Handling people required tact, and tact was close enough to lying for Rodney to be bad at it even on the few occasions he thought it necessary. “Circuits, on the other hand, so long as no one drops file cabinets on top of them . . .”

“The other agents assigned to make contact with him haven’t met with any success. He doesn’t _trust_ them.”

“Gee, I wonder why.” Caldwell’s agents tended to be smirky and smarmy and had far too high an opinion of themselves. Rodney didn’t trust them either. “That shows some sense on his part.”

“Zelenka seems to think he might respond to you.”

“He’s just saying that so he can get access to my equipment while I’m on this fool’s errand.” Rodney started picking up the pieces of his circuit and putting them in a drawer. These Ancient crystals required very little power to function—the trick was preventing them from shorting out. He hoped Caldwell hadn’t damaged it.

“You’re our last chance to get him to work for us,” said Caldwell.

“Great, no pressure,” said Rodney. “You know, that’s not even technically true. You can send someone else after you send me. I’m sure you have an infinite number of junior-level g–men who pop out of closets whenever you need them.”

Caldwell put on his hat during Rodney’s speech and he already had one hand on the doorknob by the time Rodney finished talking.

“We’re not having this discussion,” said Caldwell. “This department is not a democracy. Do I have to remind you who signs your paycheck?”

“That would be . . . the president?” said McKay.

“And who do you think advises him? You think he wouldn’t like to replace you with an American scientist? You’re going, and that’s final,” said Caldwell.

“I don’t know. Wouldn’t he rather replace me with a German scientist?”

Caldwell drew a deep breath, and clenched his fists at his sides. Rodney remembered that Caldwell had been instrumental in convincing this department to keep certain German scientists from facing war-tribunals, to allow them to change their names instead and use their knowledge to help the United States. Caldwell didn’t like having that thrown in his face.

“You can do this, or you can go back to Canada, McKay. Your plane to Miami leaves in four hours.”

 **Miami, FL.**

The sunrise rose just as lovely on the day of Julius Sheppard's sentencing as it did on any other. Did Miami look less beautiful because of the ugly trial going on? John looked everywhere in the courtroom except at his father, who was, as usual, making an ass of himself.

“Treason is a terrible crime, Mr. Sheppard,” said the judge. He enumerated the many charges: providing weapons to the enemy, exporting key archeological information and secrets, and worst of all, said the judge, his eyes flicking over to where John sat, denying the US government access to valuable personnel, personnel who could have turned the tide of the war.

John was tired of hearing it, tired of hearing it from his father, who wanted him to use his unique ability to help the Germans, and tired of hearing it from the US government, who, now that they had discovered him, wanted him to help them build their new bombs. Either way John lost.

“You can put me away,” said the elder Mr. Sheppard, as the judge and court looked on expectantly, “but the Germans are the true heirs of the Ancients, and we will rise again.”

“Save it for your appeal,” said the defense attorney.

“I hereby sentence Mr. Julius Sheppard to life in prison without possibility of parole. Court is now adjourned.” John watched as his father stood up slowly and leaned over the defense table. His father looked old in that moment, but maybe only John could see it because he masked a stumble by putting his hand on his hat, which lay on the table in front of him. The expression on his face was unconcerned, though, as if he had just lost a minor bet on a horse–race, nothing more. John didn’t know whether his father expected an appeal to set him free or if something else kept his mind unclouded.

He hadn’t seen his father in a handful of years, except for a few ill–starred visits to John’s apartment in Miami, but John couldn’t stay away from this trial. He had to see his father fall to be free of him.

***

John Sheppard looked as unaffected as his father as the judge read out the sentence. Rodney watched his handsome face in profile from where he sat. John’s lower lip pouted out, but he did not move or betray emotion with even a flicker of his eyelashes as his father left the courtroom. He looked much younger than the thirty years his file said he had lived.

Beyond, in the foyer, Rodney heard a few flash bulbs popping for the defense attorney as he left and much more for his traitor client’s photogenic son. Rodney walked out behind him and heard the shouted questions of the reporters. Sheppard simply bowed his head under their onslaught and did not reply, walking out of the courtroom and straight into a waiting car before Rodney had a chance to get his attention.

Well, Caldwell didn’t think it would happen at the courthouse, just thought Rodney might use it to get a sense of the man. Rodney had refrained from pointing out how dumb an idea that was, but he should have. He’d learned nothing here, except that this Sheppard could be reserved when he chose, no matter what his file said.

Rodney reported back later that afternoon to the temporary office Caldwell had set up in a vacated war office. “Will he serve?” asked Caldwell.

“How should I know, Director? He didn’t just shout across the courtroom that he wants to work for you—us,” said Rodney.

“Well, be careful there. He’s charming, but you don’t want to get too close,” said Caldwell. “There’s always a possibility that those fights with his father were feigned, that he’s still on their side. Have you thought about how to approach him?”

“’Hi, Mr. Sheppard, today’s your lucky day?’” suggested Rodney. “’You get to risk your life for the government who just put your father in jail.’”

Caldwell opened up his briefcase and pulled out a file full of photographs he had taken during the trial and before. “Mr. Sheppard is known as one of Miami’s party boys. Sometimes he goes on cruises with the more affluent of his… patrons.”

“Yes? And?”

“Does that suggest a way you might meet him?” asked Caldwell in a similar tone to the one Rodney used for educating the dimmer of his lab assistants.

“Should I crash one of his parties?” Rodney asked. He hated being out of his depth.

Caldwell looked Rodney up and down, and laughed shortly. “You don’t really look the part.”

Rodney glared back. “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment, Director,” he said after a moment. “Can you think of a better idea?”

Caldwell shrugged. “And how are you going to convince him?”

“I plan to appeal to his sense of patriotism,” said Rodney acidly.

“I doubt he has any. We can only threaten him with so much, though. Don’t overplay your hand.”

***

The door to Sheppard’s bungalow was slightly ajar when Rodney arrived that night, and he heard the scratchy sound of music from a record player filtering down from the upstairs window. The silhouette of a couple swaying unsteadily to the music was visible through the Venetian blinds. Rodney walked up the stairs to the main floor.

A desultory party was in progress. The men—and of course they were all men—had been well–dressed at some point in the evening but were no longer; ties and jackets lay strewn about the room and they had piled their shoes behind the door. Sheppard’s shirt hung open, and he wandered around the room, refreshing his guest’s drinks from the bottle of vodka in his hand, whether they wanted more or not. His hair had been neatly slicked back in the courtroom, but now it flopped forward in an unruly comma over his forehead.

The scene was alien to Rodney. Washington didn’t have parties like this, not that Rodney knew about, and even if they did, Rodney couldn’t risk going. Caesar’s wife must be above reproach, he thought, and so must government researchers. Never mind what Hoover was up to; unless you were at the top, and had dirt on everyone, you couldn’t afford to show up at a place like this. Unless it was on assignment.

Rodney looked around curiously. The couple he had seen from outside turned out to be two lean, dark haired men who danced more for their audience than for each other. Rodney felt a mixture of attraction and revulsion as he watched the attenuated fingers of one caress the bare bicep of the other.

“I didn’t invite you,” said Sheppard when he saw Rodney. He spoke with the over–precise diction of a practiced drinker who has gone beyond his limit. “Still, I like party crashers, as long as they can drink. You drink, don’t you?”

“Not as well as you,” said Rodney.

Sheppard smiled with half his mouth and, without taking his eyes off Rodney, removed a glass from a shelf and filled it with vodka. “We’re out of ice,” he said carelessly.

Rodney took a sip and stifled a cough as the warm vodka stung his throat. Sheppard watched him with an expression of amusement on his handsome features and Rodney could feel the rest of the room watching them. Sheppard’s charisma drew all eyes.

The older gentleman sitting at the breakfast bar regarded Rodney with suspicion. “Were you really followed by a cop?” he asked from across the room, picking up the thread of whatever conversation Rodney’s entrance had interrupted.

“Yes, I’m dangerous,” said Sheppard, without looking away from Rodney. “I might blow something up.” His voice went low for the last words, as if he meant them for Rodney alone.

“Would you really?” asked the man, still too loud.

Sheppard laughed mirthlessly. “You never know.”

“Come over here, my dear,” said the older man, “we must discuss our cruise plans.” Sheppard swayed as though already on board a ship, but managed to make his way across the room without falling.

“I don’t think I’ve said yes to your plans yet, Commodore.” The commodore put his hand on Sheppard’s arm in a proprietary manner, and Sheppard’s posture stiffened.

“No policemen on the ship,” said the commodore. “You’ll be free for a while. And what are you going to do with yourself here?”

Sheppard swayed dangerously again. “I haven’t given it much thought. Why should I go with you?”

“Because I want you to. Because you need to get away. Because I can’t bear to be without you.”

Rodney saw Sheppard smile at that and look down at his drink. Then his smile sharpened and he looked up and said, “You are all very boring. You should leave now.” The commodore’s pleasant look faltered, as though he was weighing whether Sheppard was serious or making an unfunny joke.

“You can’t mean that, my dear.”

He laid a possessive hand on Sheppard’s arm again. Sheppard hesitated for a moment but shook it off. “I do mean it. Everyone must leave.” The dancing boys shrugged as if this were to be expected. One of them went over to the commodore and whispered something in his ear. The commodore couldn’t seem to take his eyes from Sheppard, but eventually he succumbed to the tugging on his arm, and shuffled out of the room.

Rodney thought the boys on his arms looked as likely to rob him as give him a good time, but that was not in Rodney’s jurisdiction. Sheppard was. The thought was both tantalizing and frightening.

Rodney went to get his hat, slowly, giving Sheppard plenty of time to stop him and he did. He felt Sheppard’s firm grip on his forearm; the heat from his hand penetrated through Rodney’s lightweight suit and Rodney felt heat elsewhere that had nothing to do with the vodka or Miami’s weather. Sheppard’s eyes were too intense for him to meet for long. Rodney could muster up some revulsion for the Miami rent–boys who preyed upon the moneyed and bored, but Sheppard was a different breed entirely—too beautiful and intelligent for this life, he seemed more to Rodney like some kind of wounded predator—in need of care, but still dangerous.

“We should have a picnic,” said Sheppard. His eyes were wide and his voice even, as though this were a serious suggestion.

“What about your guests?” asked Rodney. He jerked his chin at the supine figures scattered around the room, those too dazed or drunk to leave when Sheppard had tossed the rest out.

“They can find their own way home. I’m tired of them. You’re new, though.” Sheppard flipped a set of car keys purposefully out of his pocket and walked down the bungalow steps. “You probably think I’m too drunk to drive,” he said contemptuously as Rodney followed him.

“Your blood alcohol level does appear to be elevated, yes.”

Sheppard smiled as though Rodney had made a joke. “I’ve driven more drunk than this, Mr. . . . what should I call you?”

“McKay.”

Sheppard smiled drunkenly at him, but then the smile faded and he rubbed his arms. A chilly breeze had come up from the ocean, and it whipped away whipped the hot air of the day. “You should button up,” said Rodney. Sheppard didn’t seem to hear him as he leaned against the door of a glossy black car.

Rodney knew the history of that car, probably better than Sheppard did. It was a BMW convertible, imported from Germany, though Julius Sheppard should have known better. The car was how they traced his other contacts, his ring of Nazi sympathizers operating out of Miami and South America. He was surprised Caldwell’s boys hadn’t impounded it, or given it to Caldwell to keep. Maybe he let Sheppard keep it as a gesture of good will.

Rodney looked at the car admiringly as Sheppard took the convertible top down. Rodney had a weakness for fast and beautiful things, and this car was a marvel, a distant cousin to the Ancient weapons he’d worked on during the war.

Sheppard shivered again, and Rodney could see gooseflesh on his stomach, and the points of his nipples showing though the thin shirt he wore. Rodney stepped up close and started to do up Sheppard’s shirt, but he smacked Rodney’s hand away.

“I’m driving,” he said, “and you’re coming with me.” He wandered around to the driver’s side and got in.

“Getting in a car with you right now is an alarmingly stupid idea.” Sheppard’s file said he was supposed to be smart, and Rodney almost mentioned that before he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to tip his hand so early.

Sheppard started the engine. “You can come with me, or you can leave.”

Rodney weighed the idea of reporting his failure to Caldwell—and the likelihood of never seeing Sheppard again—against his high regard for his own safety. The roads would be deserted this time of night, right? He got in the passenger’s seat.

The Miami moon hung low and full over the horizon as they drove along the beach. Sheppard had a keen touch on the wheel, even with all the alcohol in his system. He grinned ferally at Rodney as he kept a steady pressure on the accelerator. “You scared?”

Rodney clutched the safety bar and said nothing. Sheppard kept on looking at him, steering by some kind of instinct, rather than sight, around the slow curve of the road.

“Watch the road,” said Rodney.

“I’m a very good driver,” said Sheppard, but he turned his head back to the road. “What’s that?” he said suddenly.

Rodney turned and looked at the blinking lights behind them. “A policeman is chasing us. You must being going too fast.”

“Maybe he’ll arrest me. Then my whole family can be in jail,” said Sheppard with a certain grim relish. He pulled over.

The cop walked around to the driver’s side. He glanced at Sheppard, seeming to take in Sheppard’s casual beauty and his state of dishabille with one contemptuous look.

“Do you know how fast you were going, sir?” he asked Sheppard.

“Eighty or ninety, I hope,” said Sheppard.

Rodney dug his agency badge out of his coat pocket. “Is this really going to be a problem, officer?” he asked. The cop looked at the badge and curled his lip a little.

“No, sir,” he said with false deference. “I wouldn’t want to interfere.” Well, it didn’t matter if the cop thought Rodney was abusing his power as long as he left them alone.

When the cop pulled away, Sheppard’s head lolled back against the headrest of his seat. “Who are you really?”

“I’m somebody very important,” said Rodney.

Sheppard slipped toward unconsciousness as the last vodka he drank caught up with him, and Rodney managed to slide him over to the passenger’s side and get into the driver’s seat. Sheppard shivered again in his somnolent state, and this time did not protest as Rodney did up the buttons of his shirt and flung his suit jacket over Sheppard’s shoulders.

He drove them back to Sheppard’s bungalow, and helped him up the stairs before tucking him into bed. He looked so young in the semi–darkness, with his long eyelashes and the curving dip of his lower lip. Too young to despair like this.

Rodney closed the door to Sheppard’s bedroom and walked out into the living room. He looked around, ignoring the bodies of those revelers who’d been too drunk to leave earlier, and spotted a half–full bottle of vodka standing next to its cap. He closed it up and put it in the freezer, then settled into a chair to wait for dawn. Sheppard seemed to like him, so that was a start. Rodney hadn’t expected to get even this far.

“There’s something very honest about you,” Caldwell had said during one of their arguments as he tried to convince Rodney to take the assignment.

“That’s why you want to send me? That seems stupid.” Caldwell had rolled his eyes at him.

“You’re blunt, yes, but he’ll trust you. You don’t want to be doing this either. Based on our records, that will appeal to him. The others . . . well, he sees through anyone with charm.”

“This isn’t what I trained for,” Rodney had said, a last ditch effort, and futile, he knew. “I’m supposed to be researching Ancient technology—those Manhattan people didn’t know what they were doing.”

Caldwell gave him a warning look. “If you do this, you can get back to your precious lab, McKay. You may find something in Brazil that requires your talents. And if not, following orders is good for your career anyway.”

And the next time they spoke, Caldwell had threatened him.

Dawn came and went as Rodney dozed fitfully. The light woke the other stragglers from the party, and they stumbled out singly and in pairs, knocking over glasses and bumping into furniture as they went. Rodney loosened his collar and continued waiting.

The sun was high in the sky when he heard a knock on the door. Rodney got up to answer it, and in front of him stood the commodore from the night before, looking rather the worse for wear. He stood staring at Rodney for a while then spat drunkenly, “You’re not his type.”

“Oh yeah, what is his type?”

“Rich,” said the commodore. “I’m taking him to Cuba and you can’t stop me.”

“Fine, go ahead and ask him.” Rodney opened the door wider and let the man in.

Rodney went into the kitchen and fixed a Bloody Mary. The bottle of tomato juice in the fridge was nearly empty—Sheppard evidently used this hangover cure frequently. He heard some rustling of blankets and low angry voices before the commodore backed out of the room. Rodney sighed with relief—he’d half–expected Sheppard to follow this commodore to Cuba, to drink his way into an ugly oblivion. His file certainly suggested that as a possibility.

The commodore threw Rodney one last nasty look before leaving again, and Rodney took the Bloody Mary into Sheppard’s room. “Here, drink this.”

“Are you my butler now?” Sheppard took the glass from his hand and drained it in a long gulp. “Why are you still here?” Sheppard seemed to notice for the first time that he still had Rodney’s jacket flung over him. He fingered the collar absently.

“Your country needs you,” said Rodney. He felt stupid mouthing the words, and he knew he didn’t sound sincere. Sheppard didn’t quite roll his eyes at that, but he did look up at Rodney with disbelief written on his face. Rodney shrugged, but what else could he say?

“Which one?” Sheppard asked.

“Just because your father was in the pay of the Germans doesn’t make you one of them.”

Sheppard squinted at the light that filtered in through the blinds. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“Fine, I don’t know anything about it. Your father was importing artifacts from all over the world, and putting them together in his lab. Some of these would be very dangerous in the wrong hands. My department wants you to help get them back. Our records show you have a special gift with Ancient artifacts.”

Sheppard sat up, rubbed his forehead, and without saying anything else, stumbled toward the bathroom, trailing clothes behind him. Even half–drunk and hung over, he moved beautifully, and Rodney sighed again. Sheppard’s beauty didn’t matter—all that mattered was convincing him to go to Brazil.

Twenty minutes passed and Rodney felt himself growing drowsy again, lulled by the white noise of the shower running and the heat of the sun pressing against the windows. Finally Sheppard stepped out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his hips and his hair tousled, damp and crazy. Water droplets still ran down his chest, which was well tanned from the Miami sun. Rodney realized he should look away, that staring would not help him convince Sheppard of anything (besides how beautiful he thought Sheppard was, which people certainly told Sheppard often enough) but he could not.

Rodney did look up to Sheppard’s face in time to see his lips curve in a smug, unlovely smile when he saw Rodney’s gaze trace him over. “I’m not a patriot, Mr. McKay.”

Rodney had to stop himself from telling Sheppard to call him “Dr. McKay.” That was exactly the sort of thing Caldwell had warned him against. “We’ve had your bungalow wired for sound for the last three months,” he said instead. Sheppard’s eyes narrowed at this piece of intelligence.

Rodney stood up and put a record on the record–player—a conversation between father and son.

“We need your talents,” said the elder Sheppard’s voice, sternly.

“I told you, I won’t do it.” Sheppard’s voice when talking with his father had the usual sullen edge but something about it seemed younger as well.

“You may have been born here, and have some misguided love for this country, but you are heir to a much better race.”

“A bunch of murderers, racists and hypocrites? No.”

“There’s money in it, too. You have no idea of the riches available to you if you help us. Your abilities, my knowledge—.”

“No. Get out of my house.”

“Your house. A bunch of swishes and rent–boys. This is the life you want? Whoring yourself —.”

Rodney quickly took the needle off the record, but not before he saw a wince of pain on Sheppard’s face.

“You want to blackmail me into helping you?”

“No,” said Rodney. “I can see there’s no one whose opinion matters to you enough for that. You want to help us, though.”

“Not enough to turn him in.”

“That’s not going to be held against you.”

“Thank God for that,” said Sheppard sarcastically.

Rodney stood up. “You’re booked on a plane tomorrow for Rio. Some of your father’s friends are there, and we need to know what they know.”

“Are you coming?” Sheppard didn’t look at him.

“Yes. The flight is Pan Am 34, be there at 9:00am tomorrow.”

“That’s early.”

“You’ll make it.”

***

John frowned at the door for a while after McKay left. He had a weird mixture of arrogance and nervousness about him that John found intriguing. At least it was a nice change from the sneering, smarmy government men who had come to see him before.

John swigged back the dregs of the Bloody Mary and lay his head back on the couch as the sweet prickle of alcohol made his headache start to fade. He could still catch the commodore and his boat, spend the next few months giving occasional blow jobs and living like a prince on that yacht.

He didn’t get up, though. McKay had left the record on the record player, and John didn’t know if that was on purpose or by accident. These spy–types never did anything by accident, but McKay wasn’t cut from their mold, and he’d found John distracting enough to get flustered.

It was a nice change from being condescended to by the press and the government. John frowned. He remembered how the rest of that conversation with his father went without playing it: his father calling him a slut, him calling his father a traitor.

What did he have here in Miami to leave behind? The apartment looked dingy and depressing in the daylight. His maid would be in to pick up the fallen glassware and straighten the cushions, but he couldn’t even go on paying her if he kept on refusing men like the commodore. Rio would bring new adventures, new people, and more of McKay, who seemed to look at John with an interest that went beyond sexual, although there was that too. He thought John could _help_.

John didn’t have too much hope that he could undo his father’s sordid legacy, but maybe going to Rio could be a step in the right direction.

***

Sheppard met Rodney right on time for the plane. He had his hair decently slicked back again, although it was so thick it didn’t want to stay down, and he wore a suit. He should have looked respectable, but something about the way he wore the suit, the way it hung off his shoulders, the open collar showing just a little too much skin, made Rodney swallow hard and look around nervously at the other passengers.

Their eyes were all drawn to Sheppard as well—the women with undisguised interest, and the men divided between envy, longing, and scorn. No one spared a glance for Rodney.

Sheppard chose the window seat and Rodney sat on the aisle, feeling protective. Sheppard had a sort of repressed giddiness about him as he looked out the window at the ocean passing below and then, a few hours later, the mountains of Brazil, with their green, forested peaks, which looked almost close enough to touch.

Rodney got up to speak with Caldwell, who was sitting three rows behind them. Caldwell didn’t say anything when Rodney stood next to him, just opened up a folder so Rodney could see the contents. He read the title of the first page, ‘Autopsy Report: Julius Sheppard,’ and scanned down enough to see how it had happened. Suicide, not unexpected, but unfortunate, and he knew Caldwell would see it as an even bigger loss—a loss of leverage against the son.

“Tell him,” said Caldwell quietly. “He needs to know.”

“You want _me_ to tell him?” whispered Rodney, but not quietly. “I’m terrible at that sort of thing. I once had to tell my mother that her rose bush had died and she never forgave me. And those were just flowers.”

Caldwell pursed his lips. “Tell him,” he said.

“Sour–looking man,” said Sheppard when Rodney returned, glancing over Rodney’s shoulder to take in Caldwell.

“You’ll be seeing him in Rio. That’s my boss, Mr. Caldwell.”

“I won’t be seeing any men in Rio.” Sheppard seemed to find this pronouncement funnier than the words warranted. “Did he say anything about the job?”

“No. But he had some news about your father.” Rodney sighed. Sheppard continued looking out the window. “He’s dead.” Sheppard didn’t move a muscle. “I’m sorry,” said Rodney, feeling phony.

“How did it happen?” asked Sheppard carefully.

“Someone slipped him a cyanide capsule. One of his visitors, pretending to be a reporter, smuggled it in to him. It was sloppy of the guards to let him through.”

Sheppard inhaled sharply then let it out. “It’s odd,” he said. Rodney nodded even though Sheppard wasn’t looking at him. “I don’t . . . I guess I don’t have to hate him anymore, then.” He sounded far away, and Rodney couldn’t think of anything to say. Sheppard made himself small in the corner of his seat and looked out the window until they touched down in Rio.

 **Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.**

It was afternoon when they landed. The embassy had set up a small apartment for Sheppard and put Rodney up in a hotel in a better part of town. Someone at the agency had been doing his homework, because Sheppard’s apartment was in a neighborhood where the color of his skin might set him apart, but his beauty and the company he kept wouldn’t attract attention. Rodney walked by the place to get a sense of the neighborhood and saw beautiful men with long–lidded eyes smoking cigarettes and calling out lazily to the white men who walked through.

“You looking for something, sugar,” said one of them in heavily accented English. Rodney frowned and waved him away.

“He’s looking for something more special than your ass,” said another. No, Sheppard was too good for this place, but Caldwell wouldn’t see it.

Rodney didn’t see Sheppard at all that first week. Caldwell kept Rodney busy in the Rio embassy reading over dossiers on their suspects. A syndicate of German businessmen met every few evenings at the home of one Acastus Kolya, a Russian who had emigrated to Germany before the war, who been tolerated and then welcomed into the inner circle of South American Germans because of his great knowledge of Ancient technology.

Rodney realized, after a day of reading poorly written reports by Caldwell’s flunkies, that Kolya’s knowledge wasn’t actually that good, but he had the instincts of a stage magician for showing the Germans exactly what they wanted to see, and thus keeping himself valuable to them.

Rodney had arranged to meet Sheppard at a sidewalk café at the end of the first week in Rio, after he had a chance to settle in. Before Rodney’s meeting with Sheppard, Caldwell handed him a sheaf of photos of what Sheppard had been doing during his time without Rodney. Drinking minimally, walking around Rio during the day, even visiting the museums, and, added a sarcastic note in the file, he went home alone every night.

The file also noted that Sheppard seemed to know he was being followed and even tipped his hat at one of his tails. Rodney had to smile at that. He wondered if that had happened to other of Caldwell’s flunkies and only this one was honest, or stupid enough to put it in the report. That one also said that Sheppard had ordered rum and vodka for the bar in his apartment, so maybe he wasn’t being as abstemious as the other reports made out.

Sheppard had already consumed most of a caipirinha when Rodney found him at the café. Taking a page from the other men in Rio, Sheppard had his jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled up, exposing well–shaped forearms. When he saw Rodney he smiled with a sort of desperate charm that made Rodney’s throat tighten.

The heat that made Rodney wilt and sweat, made his collar droop and his suits lose their starch, just made Sheppard look better. The sheen of sweat on his face made him look like he had just finished doing something athletic and lascivious, and his expression added to the impression.

“Would you like another drink?” Rodney asked. Sheppard didn’t seem drunk to Rodney, but that was probably only a matter of time. Rio would begin to bore him eventually.

“No, thank you. I’ve had enough,” said Sheppard. Rodney ordered a rum and soda. Sheppard licked his lips. “See, I’m practically on the wagon.”

“According to the office, you haven’t made any new . . . ah . . . conquests, either.” Rodney flipped open the folder for Sheppard, and he paged through the pictures.

“Isn’t this a little much? Did you take these?”

“No, I’ve been busy.”

“That’s too bad. I think you would have enjoyed it.”

“We have boys in the office for that sort of thing.” Rodney closed the folder with its sordid pictures. Sheppard deserved better than this.

“No drinks either, I see.” Sheppard had retained the sheet detailing his activities.

“We’ll see if that lasts,” said Rodney. He wanted to punish Sheppard, a little, for taking him from his lab in Washington, but more, for being so terribly attractive. If Caldwell would accept any reason to take Rodney off the case, it would be that Rodney was distracted by desire for his contact, but the same admission would bar him from ever getting any interesting projects. Ancient technology would find its way to other labs, other scientists, and Rodney would molder, forgotten in his sub-basement lab. Better to see this through.

Still, as Sheppard spread out his long–fingered hand on the table, Rodney watched and swallowed, imaging those fingers on his lips, or clasped around his arm. He knew Sheppard was observant enough to spot Rodney’s reactions, and probably ruthless enough to use them, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Don’t you think I could change?” asked Sheppard in a low voice. So, this must be the charm that Caldwell had been talking about. Rodney hadn’t expected it to be so transparent. He could see Sheppard trying to manipulate him, and it made him belligerent.

“It’s a phase,” said Rodney, scooting his chair back. “As long as you stay sober enough for our little project, it doesn’t matter one way or the other.”

“I think I’d like it to matter. Wouldn’t you like me to become a better person?” He said that last with an odd mixture of sarcasm and sincerity, as if the sarcasm were a habit he couldn’t quite shake from his voice.

Rodney didn’t know whether to believe the sincerity or not. Maybe Sheppard was just trying to get Rodney to trust him so the agency would let out his leash. Rodney shrugged and Sheppard sighed. “I think I will have that drink,” he said, watching for Rodney’s reaction.

“I thought you might.” He signaled the waiter over and Sheppard ordered another drink.

“Do I make you nervous, McKay?” asked Sheppard.

“Most people do,” said Rodney, flippant but truthful.

Sheppard ran a hand through his hair. “Do we know what the job is yet?” he asked.

“No, Caldwell is still arranging all the pieces. We’re just waiting.”

Sheppard leaned forward and smiled. “Then there’s time for some fun. Meet me at the Marina tomorrow; I have a surprise for you.” He stood up swiftly, with no sign of drunkenness, and left most of his second drink on the table. Rodney felt Sheppard’s hand press his forearm as he left, but he didn’t turn to watch him go. The spots on his arm where each finger had been burned like a brand.

The next day dawned sunny and as hot as every one before. Rodney put on his widest brimmed hat and put some zinc oxide in his pocket before walking down to the Marina in the Baia de Guanabara. He found Sheppard on a small motorized boat with a canvas canopy, nothing much to look at, but sea-worthy enough. He had his shirt sleeves and the cuffs of his pants rolled up, and the wind off the water ruffled his hair. He smiled when he saw Rodney.

“You’re going to be hot in all those clothes,” he said matter–of–factly.

“Yes, well, sun and me don’t exactly get along.” Rodney squinted up at the sky, which was a blue so bright it was blinding even through his sunglasses.

“There’s a canvas cover, I’ll put it up. And you have to come.” John put his hands on his hips. “Someone has to keep an eye on me.”

“There is that,” Rodney agreed.

Sheppard had a deft hand with anything motorized, it appeared. He had stocked a small selection of drinks in a cooler under the deck, but did not indulge, at least not while he was maneuvering out of the tricky waterways surrounding the Marina. Soon they were motoring along the coast, close enough that Rodney could see the palm trees and the skyline of Rio in the distance, but far enough away that it seemed miniature and remote, as if he and Sheppard on their boat were a world unto themselves.

The city skyline passed by and soon all Rodney could see were mangrove swamps, empty beaches and the wide open ocean. “Where are we going?” asked Rodney nervously when the last buildings of Rio receded from view.

“Just somewhere pretty someone told me about.” Sheppard did seem to know where he was going and steered them by landmarks and a compass he drew from his pocket. Rodney wondered, not for the first time, how a handsome, competent man like Sheppard had ended up as a plaything for the rich and ugly in Miami—he so obviously had more to offer than that.

“Here we are,” said Sheppard a little while later. This stretch of coastline looked no different than any other, but as they got closer Rodney saw a small river opening onto the beach. Sheppard took the boat up the waterway and into a small, clear lagoon. There were signs of an old campfire on the sand.

Sheppard pulled the boat up on the beach, and helped Rodney step over the gunwale and onto the sand. “I brought food,” said Sheppard brightly when he’d made sure Rodney was sitting in the shade. Rodney didn’t know what to make of this bouncy, solicitous Sheppard, so much more carefree than Rodney had seen him before.

Sheppard opened up the bench seats on the boat and pulled out containers of cold chicken salad and some bread and brought them over to Rodney. Then his face fell. “I didn’t bring any silverware,” he said, worried, “or napkins either.”

“That’s okay.” Rodney opened up one of the containers and took a scoop with his fingers and ate it. “That’s good,” he said. Sheppard grinned at him and took a handful of the salad as well, and ate it off his fingers with his natural grace. Rodney tried not to stare, but he wasn’t very good at being subtle, and Sheppard noticed. He licked his fingers off, sneaking looks at Rodney out of the corner of his eye as he did. Rodney couldn’t stop watching.

“What’s someone like you doing at the agency?” he asked. “You don’t seem like the type they’d want.”

Rodney hardly trusted himself to speak after that display, and he didn’t quite know what he was authorized to tell. “I’m very smart,” he said after a pause. “I know more about Ancient technology than anyone else in the world. Usually I don’t do field–work, but I guess Caldwell found me too indispensable to leave me in Washington.”

“That wasn’t really what I was asking.” Sheppard’s voice went low and intimate.

Rodney tore off a hunk of bread, scooped out some salad with it, and shoved it in his mouth to avoid the necessity of speech. Sheppard’s grin told Rodney he saw through that little maneuver, and he waited until Rodney was done chewing and swallowing before leaning over, and brushing off Rodney’s cheek with his long fingers. “You had some crumbs,” he said, keeping his fingers on Rodney’s cheek.

“I did,” said Rodney. His mouth went dry

“Yeah, you did.” Their faces were too close. Rodney couldn’t pretend anymore; couldn’t pretend he didn’t want this. Sheppard’s lips brushed his—they felt soft and dry and warm. Rodney could feel the individual grains of sand under his feet, the breeze that riffled the hairs on the back of his neck, and most of all he could feel the heat from Sheppard’s skin, tightening his chest and making his lips tingle.

He put his hand up to the back of Sheppard’s neck, feeling the soft hairs under his fingertips, and crushed him into a deeper kiss. Sheppard kissed him back expertly; his fingers cupped Rodney’s cheek and then moved around to the sensitive skin south of his ear. It was too expert—Rodney wanted Sheppard to feel as out of control as he did; he wanted to be more than just another one of the many men Sheppard had held in thrall.

He ran his hand down Sheppard’s chest, over the thin shirt. The heat of the skin underneath seemed to burn Rodney hands, and he was shaking with the intensity of wanting Sheppard. Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn’t they recruit someone ugly or unpleasant? Rodney pulled back first, to save himself from feeling Sheppard pull away.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asked.

Sheppard shrugged and looked out over their private little lagoon. “It’s pretty here, right?” He stood up and started unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m going swimming.” Rodney watched him, as he was meant to: the strong lines of his back narrowing to trim waist and hips, the graceful way he walked down the sandy beach, the way he ran his hand through his hair before diving naked and perfect into the blue water.

Sheppard did a few laps, and of course, he moved just as well through the water as he did on land. Rodney admired his shoulders as he did a neat crawl out across the lagoon and back. He beckoned Rodney to join him, and Rodney waved him off. “I’ll get sunburned,” he called out.

Sheppard walked out of the water and stood over Rodney, dripping water on him. “You can come voluntarily, or I can make you,” he said with a grin. “Come on.” Sheppard had enough wiry strength that he could probably make good on his threat, and it did look fun.

“Don’t look,” he said, as he took off his jacket and laid it carefully on the sand. Sheppard waggled his hips as he walked toward the water again. Rodney stripped off his clothes, frowning at his pale skin from fifteen years spent in windowless, underground labs, so much less beautiful than Sheppard’s long brown limbs.

Sheppard turned around and looked at him. The sun shone so brightly on the water Rodney couldn’t make out his expression, so he walked over the hot sand, down the beach and into the lagoon. The water was scarcely cooler than the air, but it felt like silk on his legs. Rodney was an indifferent swimmer, but he followed Sheppard doggedly across the lagoon, into the shadowed areas under the trees in the far corner. The water was shallow enough there that they could sit on the sandy bottom. Rodney floated on his back and let the water cradle him, until he felt Sheppard watching him again.

He couldn’t look, couldn’t not look. Sheppard dipped his head under the water and came out gasping, with water dripping down his face and hair. He licked his lips, and Rodney could bear not touching him any longer—he pulled Sheppard to him and kissed him again. He didn’t care if Sheppard was too expert, if he was one of a thousand men, as long as he was the one who held Sheppard now.

The shallow waters of the lagoon were good for kissing and splashing around, but the footing was perilous for anything else, as Rodney discovered when Sheppard ran his hand up the inside of his leg and Rodney lost his grip on the sandy bottom. Sheppard hauled him back in, and gave him another kiss.

Usually in a situation like this Rodney would have been hurried, importunate (usually there wasn’t any kissing at all, just the comforting embrace of anonymity in a dark room) but with the sun heating up the water of the lagoon like a luxurious bath, and nowhere in the world he needed to be, he could afford to go slow, to keep his eyes open, and watch Sheppard reacting to him.

He relished the little noises Sheppard made when he licked the salt water off his neck, even more the glazed and happy smile when he took Sheppard’s cock in his hand. The look that Sheppard gave him held nothing of calculation or boredom, only pleasure at being here. Rodney’s more cynical side surmised that it was this quality which made him so sought after as a companion in Miami—everyone wants to be loved—but if Sheppard was playacting, he was doing a damn good job.

Rodney pushed him over to the bank, where it was shallow enough that Rodney could kneel in the water as Sheppard leaned against a tree whose roots formed the water’s edge. He kissed Sheppard one more time on the mouth, tasting the perfect curve of those lips, and how eagerly they reacted to him, before working his way down Sheppard’s chest, following the trail of hair that led from his navel to his cock. This was a wonder too, straight and hard, and Rodney swallowed it down eagerly—it had been far too long.

He would have liked to see the expression on Sheppard’s face when he came—whether silly or sublime, he wanted to see the sign of his release, and know that he’d made it happen—but it was also good to feel Sheppard’s hands, one on his shoulder, one stroking his hair in a broken rhythm. And he could hear the noises Sheppard made, choked off exclamations of pleasure and wonder, and he smiled as he licked Sheppard clean.

“I . . .” Sheppard looked overwhelmed.

“Can I buy you dinner back in Rio?” asked Rodney. He should have been tense with a need not yet sated, and his body _was_ begging for Sheppard’s hands on him, but part of him wanted to draw this out, to take as long as possible.

“Let me.” Sheppard reached for Rodney.

“Only if you want to. Or we could find a bed, and be comfortable.”

“You _are_ getting red,” said John. He pressed his thumb into Rodney’s shoulder and it made a white mark that slowly turned pink again.

“Shit, I’m going to look like a lobster tomorrow.”

John smiled a little and looked away, which Rodney interpreted to mean that he already did. “We can go back, then. You can check in. Tell Caldwell you’re keeping an eye on me.”

“Just an eye?”

“Well, at least that.”

***

The sun was nearly down when they got back to the Marina, and John had to exercise all his willpower not to reach over and touch Rodney’s neck as they walked through the streets to his apartment together, but he knew Caldwell’s men watched the apartment, even if Rodney was touchingly oblivious of it, and he wanted to protect Rodney from that.

Rodney wasn’t his usual type—John found beautiful men for his sort of athletic contests of skill and pleasure, or old men who just wanted to worship his body, wanted a beautiful young man at their beck and call. He was pleasing enough to look at—thick, dark blond eyelashes framing lovely blue eyes—but John found his impatience the most alluring, like most of life annoyed him to no end, but for John he was willing to slow down, take what came.

Rodney had sucked him off in the lagoon like John’s body was an aphrodisiac, true, but not like sucking on him was some kind of self–abasement or performance; no, he’d done it simply because he wanted to bring John pleasure.

They barely made it upstairs and inside before they were kissing and stripping each other’s clothes off. They were both sunburned, and although Rodney winced when John pushed his shirt down off Rodney’s reddened shoulders, he didn’t complain out loud.

He wanted to find out everything he could about Rodney: was a guy who wore his heart on his sleeve like that really a spy? Did his nipples feel as sensitive to Rodney as they did to John, peaking under his hands when he rubbed his thumbs over one and licked the other? What did he want more, John’s mouth around him, John’s fingers in him, or John’s cock in him?

“So do you want to fuck me, or what?” asked John, and he winced internally as he heard himself. All his usual charm seemed to have disappeared.

Rodney looked disappointed, pained something John couldn’t quite read. “That’s not . . . I mean . . . what do _you_ like?”

Ah, this was inexperience talking, not something John encountered very often, but he remembered what it was like. “We can take it slow.”

“Not too slow, I hope.” Rodney curled his fingers around John’s ear then buried his hand in John’s hair, and kissed him again. John pulled their hips together so Rodney ground against him then pushed Rodney back against the kitchen counter.

“Not too slow,” John agreed as he sank to his knees. He thought of bending Rodney over, here in the kitchen, but no, Rodney was a little too skittish for that just yet. And now he was so hard and ready that it wouldn’t take much for John to make him come. He licked down the length of Rodney’s dick, and felt Rodney’s thigh shaking against him. Yeah, not too long now. He only had to tighten his mouth and get in a few hard strokes with his lips before Rodney shuddered and came.

“I think I need to lie down,” said Rodney with an unsteady laugh.

John stood up and licked his lips. “We can do that.”

They lay down, and Rodney seemed to have gotten over whatever shyness had afflicted him in the kitchen. “So, do you want to fuck me or what?” he said, imitating John, perhaps consciously.

“Yeah I would,” said John.

Maybe Rodney had done this before, maybe he hadn’t, but John went slowly, with a finger first and some coconut oil, licking Rodney’s balls, biting his inner thighs and giving his cock long, lingering embraces with his mouth, until Rodney was ready for him. Rodney turned over on his stomach, and John pressed in slowly. He felt Rodney getting tense and stopped where he was, but it was too late to ask if Rodney really wanted this, so John instead told him to breathe, told him they could stop anytime.

“No,” said Rodney. His voice sounded curious, wondering. “Go on.”

So John did, as slowly as he could stand, until he felt Rodney rocking back to meet him and heard him make a small noise every time they came together. “Touch yourself,” said John. He wanted Rodney to come when he did, and he was close. Rodney obeyed, shifting his weight so he could support himself with one arm while stroking himself with the other. John finished, slamming into him as hard as he dared, and right after he came he felt Rodney’s spasms around him and heard the choked off noises Rodney made when he came.

John leaned down over Rodney and embraced him as much as he could in this position. Rodney’s skin was warm and sticky with sweat and John could feel his heart hammering, a little slower than John’s but not much. Then he pulled out and collapsed down next to Rodney on the bed. Rodney rolled onto his back as well.

“You’re very good at that,” said Rodney. “But you must . . . I mean . . .” He trailed off, but John could imagine what he wanted to say, which was probably something along the lines of ‘you must get a lot of practice.’ John could already see that at the end of the affair those words would probably be flung at him in anger, rather than swallowed. At least Rodney didn’t say them now.

“Not really,” said John. Not a lot of experience deflowering mostly-virginal men for his own pleasure, no.

They lay, sticky and sated, and John twined his hand in Rodney’s and asked him, more to change the subject than for any other reason, “So are you really a spy, or what? Because that’s sexy.”

“No, not a spy, no. A physicist. Dr. McKay, doctor of philosophy, except it’s not really philosophy, it’s physics. It’s weird how they do that.” He was babbling and he freed his hand from John’s so he could gesture in the air above them on the bed, as if he couldn’t keep his hands still. When he finished speaking he rolled over on his side to face John.

“So you’re a physicist–spy?” asked John. “Like Thomas Hambledon, except you teach physics and not English?”

“You’ve been reading too many bad novels,” said Rodney. “No, I don’t teach, mostly I do research, but it’s all classified. After Caldwell’s flunkies tried and failed numerous times to get you to cooperate, they sent me. I don’t think they expected me to succeed. _I_ didn’t expect to . . . I didn’t expect any of this.”

John tugged him out of bed then, and they fit into the apartment’s small tub and washed the sand and sweat of the day off. The tap water never got much above lukewarm, so they grew cold quickly from the breeze blowing in the window, and had to warm each other up again.

***

Rio seemed to welcome them everywhere they went for the next few days. At each tiny sidewalk café there were waiters who greeted Sheppard on sight—not by name, he hadn’t given that away—but with smiles anyway. These same waiters knew to hand Rodney the bill, at those places where every other table was occupied by a couple like them, men who let their hands intertwine without embarrassment. Rodney tried to keep an eye open to see whether they were followed or not, but Sheppard had a sixth sense for such things, and the one time he noticed someone following them, they ducked him quickly.

After the first seduction, Rodney arranged food and drinks and paid to rent boats or cars or whatever they needed, but he couldn’t find it in himself to mind. They took the boat back to the lagoon for another day, and had sex on their private beach as the sun went down.

They spent every hot afternoon’s siesta in bed, sometimes lying barely touching as the fan circled above them and ruffled the cotton sheets. The fan ruffled Sheppard’s hair too, which he never bothered to slick back his hair now that he knew Rodney liked it soft and untamed.

Rodney couldn’t decide what he liked more: when Sheppard took him in his hot mouth—hotter than the sunniest Rio day—or when Sheppard entered him, and he felt possessed body and soul, or when Sheppard invited him in with Rodney on top, when he got to see Sheppard’s lips part with pleasure, hear his breath come fast, feel those lips say Rodney’s name against his neck, softer than he could hear, but his all the same.

The best times were when he woke up in the middle of the night with Sheppard looking at him, stroking his hair gently. Rodney was lost, even as he tried to remind himself how many other men Sheppard must have made feel like this, just before they bought him things like that BMW, and the gold watch he carelessly threw on the bedside table before they fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2.**

The sun went down, on that last day, as they sat on the couch in Sheppard’s apartment. Well, Rodney sat, and Sheppard laid his head in Rodney’s lap, and let Rodney stroke his hair. It was soft and springy under his hand and reminded him of petting his cat back in Washington.

“Do you want to go out for dinner?” he asked.

“No, I have some food here,” said Sheppard. “I don’t want to share you with anyone tonight.” It was magical to hear that, but Rodney had to remember his duty, that Caldwell hadn’t brought them down here just so Rodney could lie late abed with the sexiest man he’d ever met.

“In that case, I need to call the hotel for my messages.” He went into the kitchenette where the phone was and dialed the hotel. There was one message, for him to call Caldwell as soon as possible.

He walked back into the living room slowly. Sheppard sat up when he saw him—he could read the change in Rodney’s expression.

“They want me over there right away,” said Rodney.

“Did he say what about?”

“No.”

“Then it’s probably our assignment.”

“I can’t think what else it could be.” Rodney rubbed his forehead. “I’ll come back later.” He picked up his jacket from where he had flung it carelessly over a chair. Sheppard stood up and came over to him. He trailed his finger along Rodney’s jaw line, then down his shoulder, his arm, and over his hand. Rodney swallowed. “Want me to bring anything back with me?” he asked.

Sheppard opened his mouth as if to say something else, but then hesitated and said, “Yes, a bottle of wine. Or something stronger, if you think I’m going to need it.”

***

Caldwell had taken over a ground floor office in the U.S. Embassy in Rio. It had thick white curtains, stained by water that had leaked through the walls, and a slowly rotating wooden fan on the ceiling. Neither kept the temperature tolerable, and Rodney felt sweat stand out on his forehead and prickle on his back as soon as he stepped into the room.

“Kolya is back in Rio,” said Caldwell, nodding a curt greeting at Rodney. A few junior agents sat in the room, looking through folders of papers and typing reports, and they all looked up when Caldwell spoke.

Caldwell’s expression was an equal mix of annoyance and concern, as if he thought he might have to deliver bad news. Rodney looked around at the faces of the other agents, none of whom would meet his eyes. Rodney put the bottle of champagne he’d picked up down on the table.

“We have his assignment,” said Caldwell. He eyed Rodney and the wine suspiciously. “We think he can get invited to Kolya’s house, and possibly even asked to stay. Mr. Sheppard, as you know, used to be quite close to Dr. Kolya.”

“So, you want him to renew his acquaintance, get into the house and find out what he can?”

“Something like that,” said Caldwell. He slid a folder over to Rodney, one full of papers Rodney hadn’t seen before. The one on top was written in a spiky hand, and the salutation was ‘My Dear John.’ Rodney read it with trepidation. The letter was from Kolya, that much was clear, and spoke in intimate terms to one John Sheppard. The letter was dated five years ago, and contained a request for Sheppard to come stay with Kolya on his ranch.

Rodney turned accusing eyes on Caldwell. “Disgusting, isn’t it?” asked Caldwell, misreading Rodney’s expression. “You can’t let your personal feelings get involved. The fact is that young Sheppard was involved with this man five years ago, and we have every reason to think that Kolya would welcome him back.”

“What about Sheppard? I don’t know if he’ll do it,” Rodney sputtered.

“You haven’t discussed this with him, have you?” asked Caldwell.

“No, I had no idea that the job would be this kind of vulgar… No, I had no idea what the job was going to be.”

“Then why do you think he won’t do it?”

“He’s not that kind of . . . he’s not a gigolo.”

“I don’t understand your attitude. They used to be involved, it shouldn’t be a big deal for him to get involved again.”

“He’s had no sort of experience with this.”

“He clearly doesn’t lack experience. This letter proves it. Your report proves it.”

“There’s a difference between the party I witnessed—,” Rodney had written a short briefing of it, true, but tried to keep the prurient elements out of it as much as possible, “—and this kind of cold–blooded—.”

“From everything I’ve seen, he’ll be perfect at this. And there’s no time to waste. Kolya will be having a dinner party for all his German cronies in a couple of days. We’ve tracked their flights into Rio. You need to explain to him what he has to do.”

“Well . . . well . . . have you thought about how to arrange the meeting? It will look suspicious if he just shows up at Kolya’s house.”

“As a matter of fact, we have. Kolya has a yacht moored down at the Marina, and he’s engaged some deck hands to take it out again. We’ve rented you the boat that shares the slip—you’ll meet that way. You can pretend you’ve hired Sheppard as a deck hand, or whatever you want. That much is up to you.” Rodney must have looked stricken, because Caldwell’s expression softened slightly. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll make sure your reputation in the agency doesn’t suffer because of the time you’ve spent with him. It’s all in the line of duty—I’ll make sure the directors understand that.”

“That’s not at all what I meant,” Rodney muttered under his breath. Caldwell ignored him.

“Don’t make trouble about this, McKay. You know what the stakes are. If the Germans in exile have a source of naquadah . . . You know how close we came to losing the Battle of Britain. If we hadn’t been able to bomb their drone emplacement . . . If they find another control chair and a supply of drones, we could have another war on our hands.”

“They say you always fight the previous war,” said Rodney, but Caldwell talked over him.

“And Kolya, he’s a Russian—he could be feeding information to the Germans _or_ the Russians, or playing both ends against the middle. We need to know.”

***

Rodney walked slowly back to Sheppard’s apartment. He wasn’t going to like this, not one bit. He seemed to regard his time in Rio as an extended vacation—a honeymoon, even, thought Rodney with a bitter smile—and thought perhaps that the agency wanted him for his native ability with Ancient technology, the reason they’d been courting him his whole life. Depending on what exactly it was that Kolya had brought here to Rio, someone who could turn the stuff on could be quite useful.

He knocked on the door of Sheppard’s apartment and walked in when Sheppard opened it, going out to the balcony that overlooked a sleepy little courtyard hung with the days washing. It fluttered in the light evening breeze.

“What’s wrong?” said Sheppard as he walked up behind Rodney. He put his hands on Rodney’s shoulders and Rodney fought the urge just to relax against him, to pretend the conversation with Caldwell hadn’t happened.

“Tell me what’s going on, Rodney.” Sheppard tried to get Rodney to face him.

“I’ll tell you after dinner.”

“You didn’t bring the wine.”

Belatedly, Rodney remembered leaving it in the office. What Caldwell would make of that, he couldn’t say. Rodney hoped Caldwell would assume he had some girl here in Rio he was seeing—it was certainly better than the truth.

“What is it? Is now when you tell me that you really have to get back to your wife and four adorable children in Washington? I didn’t think you were that good of a liar.”

“Yeah, and you’ve had a lot of experience with those.”

“That’s not nice,” said Sheppard mildly, with mock annoyance that masked a deeper hurt.

“It’s nothing like that. We’ve got a job to do now.”

Sheppard looked hopeful. “Oh. So there _is_ a job.”

“Do you remember a man named Acastus Kolya? He would have been a friend of your father’s.”

“I remember.” Sheppard’s voice had gone flat and cold. “Kolya. He said no one but his father called him ‘Acastus.’ And he hated his father. We had that in common, at least.”

“Well, he’s here, in Rio. He’s importing items from all over the world, collecting them here for some purpose. The bureau thinks he’s building something.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s consistent with their suspicions. We’ve found pieces of these devices all over the world, and even though we got a lot of technology out of Germany after the war, from what’s missing, it’s pretty clear that there’s a lot more out there, still being collected by the Germans who got out in time. I saw a letter… My boss thinks that this Kolya had a bit of a crush on you.”

“Something like that,” said Sheppard. “I wasn’t very responsive.” Rodney looked at him without saying anything. Sheppard could guess the rest. “Your bosses want me to get close to him. That’s why they picked me.”

Rodney nodded. “I didn’t know . . .,” he started, lamely.

“Sure.” Sheppard went into the apartment and started pacing back and forth. “You know, you seemed really honest,” he said, “that must be why they picked you.”

“I didn’t know it would be like this. I didn’t know this is what they’d ask you to do.”

Sheppard shook his head. “Well, what else am I good for? It’s too late for me to do anything better with my life.” Rodney couldn’t find anything to say. “You know, I wanted to join the army, fly planes in the war. Be an ‘ace.’ My father wouldn’t let me.”

Rodney put his hand out to touch Sheppard’s shoulder but he flinched away. “It’s just an assignment,” said Rodney.

“You know what it’s going to mean, what Kolya’s going to want.” Sheppard grabbed the railing hard enough to make his knuckles white. “What did you say, when they suggested it?”

“I—I said I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know what?”

“If you’d do it.”

“You didn’t protest, say that I wasn’t like that”

“They know you are.”

Sheppard stepped back. “That’s right,” he said in measured tones, “they know I am. And you think I’m like that, too.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Do you want me to take the job?” He walked toward Rodney slowly, and Rodney had to fight not to back away from him toward the door, not to flee the mixture of anger and pain on Sheppard’s face.

“It’s what we’re here for.”

“But do you want me to do it?”

“It’s up to you.”

Sheppard scowled slightly, and licked his lips as if he was about to say something. He met Rodney’s eyes for a moment but then suddenly looked away and walked toward the liquor cabinet. He opened it with more force than necessary, took out a bottle of rum, poured himself a glass and drank it all in one gulp. He wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand, and looked at Rodney, hard and unyielding, until Rodney backed out of the door.

“I’ll meet you at the Marina tomorrow. Slip 12,” he said. Sheppard didn’t answer.

***

Sheppard was there before him the next morning, lounging with insolent elegance on the side of the yacht leased for them by the agency. It was far nicer than the boat they’d become accustomed to taking to their private lagoon. Sheppard, like Rodney, was dressed in his best, a well–ironed linen suit, and although his hair was still messy he was cleaner–shaven than Rodney had ever seen him.

Rodney put his hand up to his neck where he could still feel the stubble–burn from the hair Sheppard had since shaved off. “You look nice,” said Rodney, bitterly. “No one’s going to believe you’re a deckhand.”

Sheppard frowned. “No one would think that’s really why you hired me anyway, McKay.”

“Hmmmm.” Rodney stepped onto the boat. He’d never liked them much. He knew he looked out of place here, but maybe that would help with their subterfuge if Sheppard was right, and Kolya would think that Sheppard was engaged for more than his nautical expertise. This wasn’t Rodney’s world.

Luckily, they didn’t have long to wait. Rodney recognized Acastus Kolya from the dossier photographs, although there was something menacing about him in person that mere photographs had not been able to capture. He had an aquiline face, pockmarked, yet still charismatic in a harsh way. Rodney hung back under the shade of the cabin doorway and watched Kolya stop and stare at Sheppard, then heard him say, “Is it really you?”

“It’s me,” said Sheppard. Rodney read determination in his voice, and not a little trepidation. He retreated further into the cabin to avoid having to see Kolya’s hand on Sheppard’s shoulder, as it surely would be, taking liberties and caressing through the thin cloth. He didn’t want to know.

***

John, for his part, cringed when he saw Kolya. It had been a long time, but the man still made his skin crawl. Once his father had discovered what he called John’s ‘proclivities,’ he hadn’t had much use for him, except as a means of securing the loyalty of men like Kolya.

Kolya had been a gentleman, no question, sending John expensive gifts and asking for his company, but never attempting to take more than was offered. Still, John shrank from the violence written in every gesture he made and in the scars on his hands.

Kolya stopped in his tracks when he saw John, as if someone had smacked him across the face. “What are you doing here?” Kolya put one hand on John’s upper arm as he shook John’s hand with the other.

“Oh, you know,” said John. “Taking jobs where I can get them.” He made a gesture to encompass the luxurious boat he stood on, and raised an eyebrow. Kolya could read into that what he liked, and probably would.

“I was sorry to hear about your father,” said Kolya. John nodded shortly. He couldn’t feign sorrow for that. Kolya could tell, at least, that John didn’t want to talk about his father. “How long have you been in Rio?” he asked.

“A few weeks,” John answered truthfully.

“Are you very busy?” asked Kolya. “Can you spare some time for dinner with me?”

“I can come and go as I please,” said John, and Kolya nodded firmly at that, as if it confirmed his suspicions.

“Then you could come out on my boat now,” suggested Kolya. John hesitated for a moment, balancing on the gunwale of the yacht. Rodney might come out of the cabin, beg John to stay, to throw in the towel on the whole stupid operation, but no, he stayed hidden. He was such an odd mixture of bravery and cravenness, thought John, and now wasn’t his moment to shine. Not that it mattered.

If their situations had been reversed, John wanted to think he’d go to the ends of the earth to keep Rodney from having to prostitute himself, no matter how good and patriotic the cause, but then again, their situations would never have been reversed. Rodney would never have gotten into a circumstance like this—even if he could have skated through life on luck and charm, good looks and flexible morality, he never would have. John took the arm Kolya offered, and the yacht floated up under his heel as he stepped off.

Kolya’s yacht was even bigger then the one hired by the agency, and he had young Portuguese–speaking boat boys polishing the fine wood trim to a blinding gloss. Kolya waved them off, but not before pressing a coin into each of their eager hands. “We don’t need a chaperone, do we?” he asked.

“No,” said John, loudly enough for Rodney to hear. “We don’t.”

“May I offer you a drink?” asked Kolya after he had pushed the boat off and trimmed the sail to steer them out of the Bay and around and down the coast. John itched to handle the boat himself, but Kolya kept one hand on the wheel and did not seem inclined to share the task. “I had some caipirinhas mixed up by my housekeeper this morning, in case I encountered someone interesting.” Dark–eyed Brazilian boys probably lined up for a chance at Kolya’s money and a ride on this yacht.

“And did you?” asked John, keeping up the game he’d spent long years mastering.

“Do you even need to ask?” Kolya’s voice was just as John remembered, rough and commanding, even when he tried to be flirtatious. John could better imagine that voice shouting orders across a crowded battlefield than purring as a rich playboy in Brazil. The Germans, John recalled, had thought the same thing, and had put him in charge of their battalions of industry, and Kolya managed them tolerably well until the opportunity came in 1943 to flee, although his expertise lay more in getting responsibility than hanging on to what he had.

John smiled in answer to Kolya’s question, acknowledging the compliment. “I have some projects you might be interested in, John,” said Kolya. “At least, your father would have been interested.”

“Oh, yeah?” said John. Kolya had liked him a little vulgar, a little too American, and John was good at tailoring himself to suit his audience. Perhaps he could get the information Rodney and his bosses wanted without going too far.

“Well, that’s too tedious for a beautiful day like this,” said Kolya. “Thinking about business too much makes a man old.”

“You don’t look old to me.” John gritted his teeth through the flattering banter, but Kolya didn’t seem to notice. “You look younger than you did in Miami.”

“Only since seeing you,” said Kolya. “Get yourself a drink and come back on deck. I know a lovely little lagoon where we can moor up and have a picnic.”

Thankfully, it wasn’t the same lagoon to which he’d taken Rodney. If it had been, John didn’t know if he could have gone through with this. When they arrived at a serene little inlet, Kolya insisted they set anchor and spread out a blanket on the sand. Kolya intimated that he’d like to see John go swimming, but John was feeling stubborn, and he knew from long experience that a man like Kolya would be more firmly hooked if he was made to wait a little.

So they picnicked on the beach, gossiping idly about people they both knew. Kolya dropped his compliments like bait into the water, and after each one, gave John an expectant look, as if his sallies would make John strip off his clothing and perform. John acknowledged each one as gracefully as he could, but affected not to notice any other ideas Kolya had.

On the way back to Rio, John pretended to nap in the cabin. Kolya hadn’t tried to take advantage, but he had placed a kiss on John’s neck before helping him off the boat. John agreed to dinner later that night, and told Kolya where he was living.

“Who put you up there?”

“Dr. Rodney McKay,” said John. “The man whose boat I was on.”

***

John went back to his apartment and put on the other nice suit he had with him, the dinner suit. If Kolya didn’t start buying him clothes soon, he’d have to apply to Rodney at the embassy. He grimaced to think how that would go over.

The restaurant was far from his usual haunts, with crystal chandeliers rather than tin and much more expensive wine. Kolya acted like he was having trouble resisting the urge to treat John like a beautiful woman—taking his arm, pulling out his chair—but he couldn’t resist choosing John’s meal for him.

He was halfway through his dinner, a steamed lobster—delicious, but not what he would have chosen—when he saw Caldwell across the room, and some sign of recognition must have been visible on his face, because Kolya said, “You know him?”

John shook his head ‘no,’ and looked down. Kolya seemed to like him bashful too, because he risked leaning over and tilting John’s chin up. John steeled himself not to recoil from the contact. “He seems familiar,” John allowed.

“He’s American intelligence,” said Kolya. “Rio is crawling with them these days. They seem to think that because all the Germans of means escaped to South America, they must have taken all the Ancient secrets with them as well.” John sipped his drink to avoid the necessity of making a reply. “That’s what the war was really about, you know. If you hadn’t had that falling out with your father, you—well, be careful. Have they been bothering you?”

“I’ve been followed a little,” said John. “They don’t believe my father kept me in the dark.”

“His foolish prejudices,” said Kolya. “Forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but he should have realized how important you could be to the cause. He may have sent you away for your own good, though. He knew how dangerous things were going to get for our movement.”

“It would be nice to think so,” said John. If Kolya thought this was what John wanted to hear, he was much mistaken.

“I always hoped I’d run into you again,” said Kolya. “I knew if I did, it would be as if nothing had changed. You have only grown more handsome since I saw you last.” He leaned back and watched John’s face long enough for John to grow uncomfortable. “But there is someone else, isn’t there, this Dr. McKay? A medical professional?”

“Something like that. He’s been after me since I arrived,” said John. “I met him on the plane down here, and he offered to pay for my apartment if I’d look after his boat.” Kolya nodded, choosing to understand exactly what John wanted him to—that McKay was competition but could be pushed easily out of the running.

“Is he going to get in the way?” asked Kolya.

“No,” said Sheppard. “I just wanted some company.”

“Perhaps you’ll let me be your company for a while?”

“As long as you can forget what a brat I was last time we met,” said John. John had met his pleading letters with scorn, had let Kolya come upon him embracing his tennis instructor as a way of putting him off the pursuit. Kolya merely looked amused at the reminiscence.

“If you’re sorry now,” said Kolya, “I can forget anything.”

“Thank you,” said John, deliberately not answering Kolya’s question and not apologizing.

“If you are really in need of company, you will come to my house for dinner tomorrow. Then I think I will truly forget any past . . . transgressions.”

***

Sheppard met with Rodney at the boat the next day, as they had arranged, and told Rodney in dull tones what had passed at dinner with Kolya, and that he was invited to the house that night. “And now I have to meet someone. He’s ordered me a suit and I have to pick it up.”

While Sheppard was on his errand, Rodney reported to Caldwell, and they planned to meet early that evening at Sheppard’s apartment.

Sheppard wasn’t there when they arrived, but Caldwell had a key, so they went in to sit and wait. Sitting on the kitchen counter was a vase full of purple orchids and white bromilae with a card in the same spiky handwriting Rodney had seen on Kolya’s letter to Sheppard. The card simply said “From Kolya.”

Sheppard came back after Rodney had almost dozed off on Sheppard’s couch, the same couch where he had cradled Sheppard’s head on his lap. The whole apartment, aside from the areas sullied by the flowers’ perfume, was filled with Sheppard’s salty marine scent, his masculine aftershave, discomforting and tantalizing to Rodney at the same time as they beckoned him back.

Sheppard looked too beautiful when he came home, shirt just a bit undone and lips dark and probably bruised from Kolya’s kisses the night before. He wouldn’t meet Rodney’s gaze but turned accusing eyes on Caldwell.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Well, you look the part,” said Caldwell, with undue nastiness in his voice, thought Rodney. “So, Kolya knows who I am.” Rodney had passed along that bit of intelligence.

“I think he keeps tabs on as many American agents as he can down here.”

“As long as he hasn’t made you yet.” Caldwell swallowed, as if thinking of the alternate implications of those words, but then shrugged and continued. “Tonight, it’s very important that you remember the names and faces of everyone you meet. And nationalities, too.”

“The Germans? That shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Don’t think too much, don’t ask too many questions.” Sheppard rolled his eyes just slightly, but only Rodney seemed to notice. “They’re a dangerous bunch,” said Caldwell. “I don’t like anyone’s chances if they find out they’re being double crossed.”

“No need to make him anymore nervous than you have to,” said Rodney, sounding more nervous to his own ears than Sheppard ever had.

“Is that all?” asked Sheppard dismissively. Caldwell left first, and Rodney stopped in the front door—he wanted to say something—but what that was escaped him. Sheppard’s face did not invite confidences, though, and Caldwell was just around the corner.

“Good luck,” he offered lamely.

Sheppard just nodded.

***

At least Rodney looked like he was hurting—John took a grim pleasure in that. Rodney’s emotions showed on his face so easily, but John was forced to wonder if those emotions were really genuine. Someone couldn’t fake that kind of sincerity, could they? Still, he was in the employ of the US government, temporarily at least a spy.

Kolya had purchased a fine tuxedo for John, in the lightest, most supple wool imaginable, tolerable even in the Rio heat, and it felt wonderful to put it on. John knew he looked good tonight, of course, and he examined himself in the apartment’s cracked mirror to be sure.

Kolya sent a car for him, and the driver knocked on the door just as John was loosening his tie that little bit that would make anyone who looked at him want to take it off. It was too easy. Once, he had been surprised, even flattered at the attention his looks generated, but now he made sure of them the way a banker checks his accounts, or a tennis player flexes his elbow, when it’s long past the time he can learn any other skills.

The driver betrayed no discomfort at being in this neighborhood, not even when the boy lounging at the corner of the building, with a cigarette draped lazily between long fingers and half lidded eyes that lingered on everyone who passed, sized them both up and said something in Portuguese. John didn’t understand the words, but the meaning was quite clear. It was a sort of salute—John’s date for the night was of a higher quality than that boy could ever hope for.

The driver must be used to picking up Kolya’s dates in places like this. Other Germans had settled in Uruguay and less accommodating spots, but Kolya had chosen Rio for its cosmopolitan lifestyle, which suited him better than any of those other backward countries.

Most of the Germans frowned so much on men with Kolya’s preferences, John wondered why he had been accepted. Rank hath its privileges, he supposed.

Kolya’s house was north of the city, with long lawns between it and the ocean, but no other buildings, so the breeze blew in cool off the water at night.

The car pulled up to the double staircase at the entrance. The driver opened the door and John got out and walked up the stairs. A butler opened the door and introduced himself as “Prenum. Let me know if you need anything, sir.” He did give John a piercing once–over, but that was, in John’s experience, at least part of their function. Prenum probably distributed those looks democratically among people not in Kolya’s immediate family.

A young woman appeared to escort John into the sitting room. “Mr. Sheppard? I am Sora, Kolya’s niece. You resemble your father very much.” John put out his elbow and she slipped her arm through it, standing closer to him than strictly necessary.

“Kolya always admired you,” she continued. “Now I see why.”

Kolya came up to them next and made as if to shake John’s hand but then saw he was escorting Sora and pulled away. “Sora, my dear,” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek, “I see you have met Mr. Sheppard.”

“Yes,” she cooed. “He is quite charming.”

They walked together into the sitting room. Kolya shooed Sora off to greet their other guests, then introduced John around. John fixed each of the faces and names in his memory to report back later. Sora had curly hair and a pouty mien—she was probably someone’s plaything in addition to being Kolya’s niece. Ladon had a greasy and knowing look about him and John drew back from shaking his hand. Cowen looked more like a butler than the actual butler did, but there was something sour and menacing about him, in addition to his officious air.

There were others as well, and John watched them mill about the sitting room, drinking and talking in low voices. Some of their faces he recognized from back when he and his father were still on speaking terms and some were new.

Prenum announced dinner and they all moved in to the dining room. John was seated next to Kolya.

“How are you finding Rio?” a man called Idos asked John.

“Fun enough, I guess,” said John. “Have you been here long?”

Idos launched into a meandering soliloquy on his time in South America and then into the story of his first visit here, in the long–vanished twenties, and John nodded and made polite noises as he watched an odd exchange going on at the other end of the room.

Ladon had become agitated at the sight of the wine bottles on the sideboard and while Cowen attempted to calm him, all the other men except Idos exchanged worried glasses with one another. Finally Ladon was persuaded to sit, but after that the conversation was strained. At one point during the dinner, Sora whispered something in Ladon’s ear, his face turned pale and he excused himself from dinner, claiming a headache.

The dinner went on, with Kolya, embarrassingly, insisting that John be served the best of everything, and inquiring frequently as to whether his champagne was cold enough, his chair was comfortable, until it was all John could do to remain civil.

In private he might pout a bit to get Kolya to treat him less like some china doll, but here in uncertain company he retreated into monosyllables and pushed his food around his plate. Finally it was time for drinks and dessert, and then Kolya sent everyone home.

“You’ll stay this time,” he said to John, with his hand firm on John’s elbow. The touch might have been his attempt at seduction, or it might have been a threat. John thought of Rodney, at the top of the stairs in his apartment, his blue eyes full of pain, and of Kolya, who looked as if he had spent much more time causing pain than experiencing it. Rodney hadn’t stopped him, though.

“I’ll stay,” said John. Kolya couldn’t be worse than some, and this time at least it was for a good cause.

***

Rodney received a note at his hotel the next afternoon saying that Sheppard would be at the races with Kolya and his niece. Rodney dragged himself out of bed, where he had spent a sleepless night, and splashed some water on his face before getting dressed and going out to meet Sheppard.

Rodney saw Sheppard sitting with Kolya, and he walked back and forth in the standing-room-only area, feeling like a fool, until finally Sheppard was standing at his elbow. He fought back a smile at that warm and familiar presence. Sheppard didn’t look like he wanted to smile back.

“Hello,” said Sheppard.

“Hello.” They leaned on the rail without looking at one another. “I thought I, ah, saw you up there,” said Rodney.

“How are you?”

“Fine. Look, Caldwell told me to tell you, don’t send any more notes. I’ll find you when I need to.”

“Caldwell told you, huh? What else did he tell you?”

Rodney didn’t say know what to say and they watched the horses without speaking. A cheer went up as a race finished, and Rodney remembered he was supposed to be pretending to care along with the rest of the spectators. He clapped a little, and stole a glance up at the box where Kolya sat. “Did you learn anything worthwhile last night?” he asked.

“Yes. There were lots of my father’s colleagues there. One of the men, a Dr. Ladon, became very agitated when he saw a certain bottle of wine on the sideboard. I wrote down a list of everyone else who was there.”

“What was in the bottle of wine?” Rodney looked right at Sheppard, forgetting his subterfuge for the moment.

“Just wine. I drank some.”

“Would you recognize the bottle again?”

“Yes. It was a 1936 Burgundy—not too many of those around anymore.”

“Oh,” said Rodney, “I wouldn’t know. Anything else not on your list?”

Sheppard turned back to look at the horses. Another race had started. “Just a minor piece of news. You can add Kolya to that list you have of my ‘conquests’. Along with you. Do you think that’s in my file? Or yours?”

Rodney felt a weird amalgam of fear and anger suffuse his body. He stared at the horses intently. “That was fast.” His voice, he noted, sounded calm but far away.

“That was the plan, wasn’t it?” John asked, a note of bitterness in his voice.

“I don’t think you can really blame me for this,” Rodney said defensively.

“No, I guess you wouldn’t.” Sheppard shifted next to him and turned to look out over the race again. “Are you betting on this race?”

“No,” said Rodney.

“Kolya says number ten is sure to win. He knows the owner.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Kolya says they’ve been keeping him back all season.”

“’Kolya says—,’” Rodney imitated savagely.

“You could have stopped me,” said Sheppard. “All you had to do was ask.”

“I . . .,” started Rodney, but he was interrupted by the approach of Kolya himself, stealthier than Rodney would have credited for a man of his imposing bulk.

“Hello there,” said Sheppard. Rodney watched as Sheppard relaxed against Kolya’s shoulder—a subtle display of affection between them that would have been convincing had Rodney not seen the look on Sheppard’s face, still accusing.

“Mr. Sheppard told me I should have bet on number ten,” said Rodney. “Horse racing always seems like luck and voodoo to me.”

“Oh no, Dr. McKay, I assure you, it’s pure science.”

“Hardly pure,” said Rodney, scoffing, but then he recalled himself to his task. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Sheppard.” He walked away through a crowd that pressed too close and seemed all elbows.

***

John pulled away from Kolya as soon as Rodney was out of sight. “Exciting race,” he said. “Did you have any money on it?”

“I didn’t see the race.”

“I saw you looking through your binoculars.”

“I was watching you with that Dr. McKay. What did he want?”

“He just wanted to see me,” said Sheppard. He gave Kolya a scornful look. “This jealousy is not one of your best traits.”

Kolya shrugged that off. “You looked like you wanted to see him.”

“It was a coincidence.”

“Are you in love with him?”

Probably. “No, nothing of the sort.”

“You seemed very intimate for a chance meeting.”

“He’s annoying and persistent, that’s all.”

“I’d like to be convinced,” said Kolya, tightening his grip around John’s wrist painfully.

John put the hand that was not captive up to Kolya’s shoulder. “We don’t have to stay here then,” he said. Kolya nodded and loosened his grip

“The afternoon is warm. Perhaps some cold drinks by the pool?” He guided John firmly by the elbow back to their waiting car.

Back at Kolya’s house, John requested a drink and pretended to fall asleep by the poolside before Kolya could press him into any more strenuous service.

Kolya wasn’t that bad, John thought. He’d done worse for less reward than Kolya was offering. He had been such an innocent the last time Kolya had made an offer for him, spurning the material affection Kolya could offer for the much more ephemeral attractions of youth and beauty. If he had still been in his old life back in Miami, he would have considered Kolya a good catch.

No, Kolya wasn’t that bad, but John couldn’t think about being in his arms without comparing it to being with Rodney. Rodney, who had eagerly made John come as many times as he could stand it, just for the joy of being the one who made it happen. John recalled lying next to him, on one of their few nights, waiting for Rodney to ask the question all his lovers had asked at one time or another.

“Why me?” they always asked. “You could have anyone, why me?”

And John always lied; he made up good ones, designed to flatter the egos of the ones he wanted to keep, or bad ones, designed to insult the ones he wanted to quit, but he could have told the truth to Rodney.

“Because you’re honest,” he would have said. He might have added, “because you actually love me, and not just my looks,” but he wasn’t quite sure it was true—and he didn’t want Rodney to tell him it wasn’t.

Rodney would have said, “I don’t think that is so rare.”

“You’d be surprised,” John would have answered.

But Rodney had never asked; he just looked at John with an expression that was half pain and half wonder, and kissed him. Kolya seemed to think access to John’s body was an acceptable trade for access to Kolya’s wealth.

John sat up and looked out over the fields and the ocean view. Kolya must have been watching, because as soon as John sat up, he came over and sat next to John. He laid his hand on John’s arm.

“I want you to feel like this is your home,” he said.

“It is,” said John. So easy to say what they wanted to hear.

“Not just now, always.”

The “forever” talk always spelled the beginning of the end, in John’s experience. He smiled in a way he hoped was winning. “I’d like you to stop living in that seedy apartment and move in here,” Kolya continued. “I’ve had my lawyers draw up some papers writing you into my will, and I think you should apply for Brazilian citizenship as soon as possible. I’ll sponsor you.”

This was a little further than any of his other suitors had gone. “I don’t understand,” said John as he took off his sunglasses.

“If you were a woman, this would be a proposal, but you’re not,” Kolya smirked, “and I certainly wouldn’t like you if you were.”

That knocked the wind out of John’s sails. “Can I think about this?” he asked.

“Can you think upstairs?”

So John let Kolya take him upstairs. Kolya was as attentive in bed as he knew how to be that afternoon, making sure John came before he entered him. He kissed John’s neck as he came.

“I’m not very good at this, John,” he said afterward. John said something polite about wondering how much better Kolya could be. “Not that,” he answered. “I’m not good at having someone else in my life. But I want that to change.”

“I don’t know if I am either,” said John, with a shy little grin to which no one had yet failed to respond favorably. “We can try, though. One thing, though, I don’t want to feel like I’m on a leash.”

Kolya gave him a suspicious look. “Alright,” he said, “but I don’t want to feel I’m being made a fool.”

John escaped him the next day, begging off with an errand in the city that couldn’t be postponed, correspondence and packages to be picked up and mailed. Kolya offered to send Prenum to take care of it, but John refused.

***

“Well, this is going very well,” said Caldwell when Rodney reported in. He was as close as Rodney had ever seen him to cracking a smile. “I knew you were the right person to convince him.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Rodney. “You sent, what, seven other agents to talk to Sheppard before sending me?”

“All’s well that ends well,” said Caldwell, refusing to let go of his good mood.

“It’s not over yet.”

“We know that Dr. Ladon is here. That is very interesting news. He was the primary scientist on the Naquadah Project in Berlin before the war.”

“That’s right,” agreed Rodney, “but they never achieved the technology required for naquadah power generation, and then we confiscated their whole supply after the war. All the records indicated that the stockpiles in Poland and France were the only major sources. I think—.”

He was cut off by Caldwell’s secretary opening the door and announcing, “Mr. Sheppard wishes to see Mr. Caldwell or Dr. McKay.”

“He’s here?”

“Don’t look at me,” said Rodney, “I told him we’d contact him.”

“I don’t like him coming here,” said Caldwell. “I was worried about this—that sort of man—but he seems to be doing a good job. Still, he can’t just drop by whenever he feels like it. There are some—.”

“What sort of man is that, Mr. Caldwell?” asked Rodney. He crossed his arms over his chest.

Caldwell’s lips twitched unpleasantly. “Oh, I don’t think any of us have any illusions about his character, do we Dr. McKay?”

“Not at all, not in the slightest,” said Rodney. The other agents in the room looked down at their reports or out the window. “Why, he’s nowhere as heroic as your son, Mr. Caldwell, serving out the war in, what was it? The officer’s club in Washington? Now that was heroism.”

“That’s uncalled for, McKay,” said Caldwell angrily.

“Sorry,” said Rodney.

Caldwell clenched his fists at his side and might have said something else, but his secretary led John Sheppard into the office, and Caldwell composed his face into a more pleasant arrangement. “Mr. Sheppard,” he said, extending his hand, “how do you do?”

Sheppard shook it. “So this is the office, huh?”

“Yes. This is Mr. Kavanagh, and you already know Dr. McKay. Won’t you sit?” Caldwell pulled out a chair.

“Yes, thank you.” Sheppard sat down.

“You are doing some very good work, Mr. Sheppard, but we are worried about you visiting this office.”

Sheppard licked his lips. “I won’t break the rules again, but there was something I had to find out before lunch.”

“Something happened?” asked Rodney.

Sheppard glared at him for a moment before continuing. “Yes, something confusing.” He slid some papers across the table to Caldwell.

Caldwell skimmed them and frowned, and Rodney tapped his fingers on his forearm impatiently. Finally Caldwell looked up and said, “He wants to give you half his wealth as long as you continue living with him, he wants you authorized to raise his children should he have any, and vice versa. Mr. Sheppard, if you’ll pardon me saying so, this sums up the legal ramifications of a marriage, without, of course, a ring, or a ceremony.”

“I think he’s going to give me a ring,” John mumbled.

Rodney felt like he had been punched in the gut. He opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t expose much more than he wanted Caldwell to know. “Is this even legal?” he asked, finally.

“It might raise some eyebrows,” said Caldwell, “but in Rio the wealthy can pretty much do what they want. I’m sure this isn’t the first time someone’s favorite has been raised to the level of wife.”

Rodney saw Sheppard’s shoulders tense at that. “He wants me to decide right away. By lunch. And I wanted to check if that was part of the deal.”

“Are you willing to go this far for us, Mr. Sheppard?” asked Caldwell.

“Yes, if you wish,” said Sheppard. His eyes flicked up at Rodney briefly before looking back at Caldwell.

“What do you think of this, McKay?”

“Well, it could be very useful,” said Rodney. How Caldwell didn’t see through him right now, he didn’t know. Probably Caldwell couldn’t conceive of someone falling for Sheppard—that much was clear from his earlier comments.

“Well, you know the situation better than any of us,” said Caldwell to Rodney. A perturbed look crossed Caldwell’s face. Rodney probably looked as close to throwing up as he felt.

“What inspired Mr. Kolya to go this far?” Rodney asked.

Sheppard glared at him. “I don’t think you need to answer that, Mr. Sheppard,” said Caldwell.

“Then it’s alright?” asked Sheppard. “You want me to go ahead with this?”

“I think there may be a problem,” said Rodney. “What if he wants to take you on a honeymoon?”

“Do you think that’s likely?” asked Caldwell.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” said Sheppard.

“Oh, that’s just great then,” said Rodney.

Caldwell affected not to notice the sarcasm. “I want to thank you, Mr. Sheppard. You’ve been very accommodating.”

Rodney cringed at the double meaning of “accommodating,” but Sheppard rose from his chair with dignity and let himself out.

“I don’t know how he can do it,” said Caldwell after he left. “Still, it’s good for our cause.”

***

Rodney was happy to see that if there was any sort of mockery of a ceremony, it didn’t make the Brazilian papers, not even the gossip rags. Rodney’s Portuguese was nonexistent, but the embassy employed quite a few Brazilians without enough to do who were happy to translate for him.

Rodney spent the next week reading and re–reading all the scientific papers he had brought with him. They had no useful information in them—even though the Ancient technology that had been used on both sides of the war was now an open secret, the interesting science was still classified.

Dr. Jackson had included a list of papers his secretary, Miss Carter, thought Rodney should read. She had some passing interest in physics, and had been a lab technician during the war, when all the young men who usually did the job were overseas. Rodney skimmed the list and was surprised to note that not all the suggestions were completely off the mark.

He went out every day to the park bench in the Campo de Santana, where he had arranged to meet Sheppard whenever Sheppard could get free. As the days passed with no sign of him, Rodney wondered if perhaps Caldwell had misjudged Sheppard from the beginning, if he had simply used the U. S. Government to maneuver himself into a place where he could make a good score and get set up for life.

Could it be that? That Sheppard had used him like that? He didn’t want to think so, not when the memories of their time together were still so near and sweet.

Then one day Sheppard appeared. He walked with his head down and his hands in his pockets, as if playing the part of “casual” without actually believing it. Rodney thought he looked tired, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe Kolya was just keeping him up nights.

“I think whatever you’re—we’re looking for is in the wine cellar. I asked Kolya for keys to the place and that’s the only one he won’t give me a copy of.”

“Then why don’t you get the key from him? You’re living with him, aren’t you?”

“What am I looking for if I do get in there?”

“You’re probably looking for a bottle of wine, like the one that rattled Dr. Ladon at dinner that night.”

“Funny you should mention him. He hasn’t been around in a while,” said Sheppard.

“That’s to be expected. He washed up on the beach a few days ago.” That news had rattled Rodney, though he delivered it calmly enough now. It was all he could do not to insist that Caldwell go charging in to rescue Sheppard. Only his own sense of self–preservation should Caldwell guess what he had been up to with Sheppard kept him from suggesting it.

“Do you think it will glow if I get near it, like that stuff my father used to collect?”

“Possibly,” said Rodney. “It might not be Ancient technology. There’s plenty of human stuff they could make trouble with. And not all Ancient technology has a genetic component.” He sighed. “I should probably take a look at it myself.”

“Kolya’s not going to just invite you over.”

“I guess we should all pack up and go home then,” said Rodney.

“You’re a real treat today, Rodney, you know that?” said Sheppard. “I could probably get him to throw me a party.” He grimaced. “He loves showing me off. He’s not going to like you being there though.”

“Why not?”

“He thinks you’re in love with me. Maybe if I told him I wanted to invite you so you could see how happy I am now, so that you’d give up and find someone else….”

“You two are having a real laugh about this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, that’s what we do, every night, laugh about you, McKay. I though you were supposed to be in charge of this thing. Don’t you want to find out what he’s hiding?”

“Yes,” said Rodney. Sheppard seemed excited to be making some progress, and Rodney supposed he should be too.

“I’ll make sure you get an invitation,” said Sheppard.

***

John found it pathetically easy to coax Kolya into giving a party. He treated John as much like his new bride; jewelry, flowers, and confessions of love as tender as such a military man could manage came daily. It was stifling.

He sneaked up on John while John was getting ready for the party. “I’m surprised Dr. McKay is coming tonight,” he said with an air of menace. “Not that I can blame him for wanting to see you. I just hope nothing will happen to give him a false impression of your interest.”

Kolya had his keys in his hand and put them down on top of John’s dresser to squeeze his shoulders. Kolya saw Prenum in the hall and called after him. While Kolya consulted with Prenum about some detail of the party menu, John took the wine cellar key off the key ring and put it into his pocket just as Kolya returned.

“You look . . . too beautiful,” he said when he came back. John nodded. He hated compliments like this, but at least Kolya was focusing on that rather than the missing key. “Everyone envies me. Well, everyone who has any idea what they’re missing.”

Kolya could certainly throw a glittering party when he desired. When John came downstairs the grand foyer and ballroom were already filled with people. The men were all dressed in white–tie and the women in various glittering plumage. Kolya took him around the room, introducing him variously as “my friend” and “Mr. Sheppard’s son” to the most important people.

John received several curious looks, but Kolya’s proclivities were apparently an open secret in the cream of Rio society and anyone who had anything rude to say did not say it in John’s presence. Indeed, several gentlemen cornered John to see if John could influence Kolya about various financial matters.

John looked around for Rodney, but didn’t see him anywhere. He checked on the champagne and the bar to see how fast it was being consumed, but it didn’t look like Kolya would need to go down to the wine cellar to replenish the party for several hours yet.

Finally, John saw Rodney across the room. He looked uncomfortable in white tie, fiddling with his cufflinks and smoothing back his hair too often, and he kept scanning the room and checking his wristwatch.

“You’re supposed to wear a pocket watch with a tuxedo, Rodney, didn’t you know?” said John.

Rodney startled, then smiled when saw John; the corners of his mouth tugged down in that peculiar way that John wanted to trace with his fingers. He shoved his hand in his pocket instead. Then Rodney appeared to remember why he was there and the smile faded. “Sorry I’m late. The driver got lost. I don’t know how you fail to find the biggest house—the only house—in ten miles, but there you go.”

“Dr. McKay,” said Kolya, surprising them. “So nice to hear your whiny voice again.”

Rodney looked affronted. “Kolya. Nice to see you too. Having another yay–I’m–so–rich–party?”

“Money isn’t the only thing I have, McKay.”

John made a face to hear himself described as a thing. “I was just going to make sure Dr. McKay found the bar,” he said.

“You do that,” said Kolya. “I’m sure he needs it. Don’t be gone too long.” He strode off to talk with some of the German guests.

“Is he looking over here?” asked John as they walked toward the bar.

“Yes, he keeps on glancing over at us. He’s the jealous type, is he?”

“The jailor type,” said John. “We have to do this fast.” He saw Kolya pull Cowen into a quick conference and gestured to Rodney to go out the door near the bar, which led outside and to the wine cellar.

“Which bottles did you see?” asked Rodney. The wine cellar was extensive, at least a twenty foot square room, with ten foot ceilings, and shelves of wine bottles lining every wall, and more shelves in the center of the room.

John walked around the room, glancing up and down the layers of bottles. Rodney kept one eye on the door, but John saw Rodney steal glances his way every so often. Just leave it, he thought. It would be easy enough to tempt Rodney into some other indiscretion, but Rodney didn’t seem to stay tempted.

“Here it is,” he said. The 1936 Burgundy. Not Grand Cru, but still acceptable, this Gevrey–Chambertin was probably considered Premier Cru these days, especially one of these, one of the few that the winery could turn out before the war. In fact, with all France under Vichy control, this bottle of wine was likely commandeered by Nazis and sent over here before the Allies marched in. Rodney walked over and picked up the bottle. Rodney turned it over in his hands as if it weighed more than a bottle of wine should. John saw grains of sand inside the green glass flowing over one another.

“Vintage sand?” asked John. He reached out to take the bottle from Rodney and wrapped his hand around Rodney’s instead. It wasn’t entirely an accident.

Rodney said, “We shouldn’t,” and then made a face like he knew how clichéd it sounded. He looked up at John, with those pained and worried eyes. He had new lines between his thick eyebrows which weren’t permanent yet but would be. He didn’t pull the bottle away from John, but eased his hands out from underneath, and pulled the foil off the top. It was already loosened, and the cork inside stuck out slightly.

Rodney tugged and wiggled it out with his fingers; they were both stronger and more sensitive than they looked, as John had cause to know. Rodney tipped out some of the sand into an envelope, sealed it up, and tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket. He was wedging the cork back in when John heard the sound of the door knob of the wine–cellar turning.

He jerked his head at Rodney and they both ducked down and moved quietly toward the back of the room. There was a basin sink there with curtains around the base, obscuring the plumbing and providing enough space for both of them to fit underneath, provided they didn’t mind being very close.

John didn’t mind. He went in first and then Rodney wedged himself in between John’s legs, and John put his arms around Rodney as well to keep him balanced, and because he could. He could feel Rodney’s pulse hammering under his skin, and Rodney was breathing very quickly.

John laid his fingers deliberately on Rodney’s neck, hoping the gentle pressure would calm him down. He heard heavy footsteps pacing around the room. Rodney’s breathing slowed and quieted, but John could feel his body tensing up in his arms as the footsteps neared them.

“Shhhh,” he said, against Rodney’s ear, barely audible even to himself. He let his lips stay there as they listened to the footsteps approach. They came so close that John could see the slightly scuffed toes of what could only be Kolya’s shoes. Then the footsteps stopped. John didn’t know if Kolya had left or if he was standing there, waiting.

Rodney tried to shift, but the space was too tight, so John held him firm. “This is uncomfortable,” whispered Rodney, “and undignified.”

“Shhhh,” said John, still only millimeters from Rodney’s ear.

“I think he’s gone,” said Rodney. He started to pull the curtain aside and stood up. “I have to put this bottle back.”

John held his breath as Rodney pushed aside the curtain. It didn’t look like courage when Rodney did it, just sheer pigheadedness, going forward and damning the consequences, but that must be what courage really looked like. Not glamorous, just going on ahead.

John followed quickly after. “There’s another bottle missing,” he said when he came up behind Rodney. He put his hands on Rodney’s shoulders and kissed the back of his neck above the collar of his white shirt. The skin there was more tanned than it had been in Miami. Even without John, Rodney must not be spending all of his time inside.

“Don’t do that,” said Rodney, sounding choked. “If he catches us, then all your sacrifices will be—oh God, I missed that.” He put the bottle back on the shelf, turned around, and started kissing John back. When John watched Rodney with other people, well, Caldwell and Kavanagh, Rodney seemed to brush past them as though their thoughts and concerns were of secondary importance to his big goals. But his kisses, those spoke of endless care and attention, as if there were nothing in his mind, not Kolya, not the strange sand, not imminent discovery, nothing beyond John.

It was John who had to pull away, to whisper that they had to get back to the party, and separately, or Kolya would find them.

“You’re determined to go through with this, then?” Rodney asked.

“I’ve signed the papers, signed away my American citizenship, done everything you asked,” said John, although he knew it was unfair. He didn’t feel particularly inclined to fairness, since he was the one who had to go back to Kolya’s bed, to live among this den of thieves he’d tried to leave behind in Miami.

“I didn’t ask for this,” said Rodney, forgetting to be quiet. “You could have said no.”

“Really,” said John, flatly. “This was why you brought me here.”

“You should get back to the party.” John turned to go, and heard a crash and the sound of broken glass behind him. He looked back and saw that Rodney had knocked over one of the bottles of sand.

“Go,” he said. “I’ll clean this up.”

John opened the door a crack and saw Kolya standing twenty feet away down the garden path. “He’s out there,” he hissed at Rodney. “He knows.”

“He knows something,” said Rodney. “If he knew everything, he wouldn’t just be waiting.”

“Well, what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re the spy. Don’t you have some trick to get us out of this?”

“No.”

“Wait, I have an idea. When we get to the door, you grab me and kiss me, and then I’ll push you away, and we’ll pretend we were fighting and I was trying to get you to leave.”

“That shouldn’t be very hard.”

John grinned wolfishly. “Exactly.”

So they did just that. At the door, Rodney grabbed John and mashed their faces together, and it would have worked perfectly, except John could taste the desperation Rodney put into their kiss, and he didn’t want to let go either.

“I told you, Rodney,” said John, “it’s over between us. Why can’t you understand that?”

“I’m not asking you to leave him, just don’t . . . cut me out entirely,” said Rodney. He was pretty convincing.

“Well, isn’t this a touching scene,” said Kolya, as he walked toward them.

“He told me he just wanted to say goodbye.” John rubbed his lip as he spoke. Rodney had bitten his lower lip as he pushed Rodney away, and John had to hide a smile at that.

“And you couldn’t stop him from kissing you,” said Kolya. “I find that difficult to believe.”

“He surprised me, that’s all.”

“Dr. McKay, I think you should be leaving,” said Kolya.

Rodney pulled the shreds of his dignity around him, and drew himself up to his full height. His face was flushed and his lips were still wet from kissing John. “I think perhaps you are right,” he said stiffly.

John had an inkling Rodney might not make it off the property alive if he didn’t do something. As he watched Rodney walk away, he entwined his hand with Kolya’s. “Is the party nearly done yet?” he asked. “It must be time for bed soon.”

“Are you tired?” asked Kolya, his voice hard.

“Not tired,” said John.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3.**

The next morning, Kolya brushed back John’s hair where he lay, sleeping the sleep of the dead next to him. He slept like a child, an innocent, breathing deeply and rarely waking in the middle of the night. That was, perhaps, the most attractive thing about him, that even through a history of which Kolya only knew a part, running away from his father, screwing God knows how many men for pleasure and profit, there was some untouched core of innocent playfulness.

Kolya didn’t entirely trust John, but he was so beautiful, and so obliging in bed, and then there was that ability with all things Ancient that made him seem like a gift from the gods, dropped straight into Kolya’s lap, that he could forgive the little things.

He was pretty sure John was stringing this McKay along on the side, but when it came to material possessions, he was McKay’s superior, and Kolya couldn’t really see anything else McKay had to offer. Personality? Annoying and superior. Money? If he had any he hadn’t been lavishing it on John. Bedroom tricks? Kolya couldn’t be sure there. Maybe that was why John wanted to keep him panting around. Well, Kolya never expected John to be faithful, just for the honeymoon period to last a little longer.

And there were more pressing things to worry about, no matter how beautiful and deceitful the man who filled his bed was. For one thing there was Sora, always needling him about John. “He’s not worthy of you,” she always said. “He’s just a gold digger.” Sora’s angle was easy to figure—she didn’t want her portion spoiled. It was tedious.

More pressing were the Germans, continually asking him how his research was going. Since they had eliminated Ladon, things weren’t coming along as swiftly as they would like. They were disposed to blame Kolya, when it was their own paranoia that was at fault. He was no scientist. He was a man of action.

Dr. Crandall wanted to take another look at the naquadah they had recovered from the war, to see if it needed further refining—Kolya was pretty sure this was a stopgap measure to keep him from having to produce results, but unless he got what he wanted, he wouldn’t move on.

Kolya got up quietly and put on his dressing gown, then slipped his keys into his pocket. Something about them bothered him and he took them out again. The key to the wine cellar, which he had thought he had lost the night of the party, was back on the chain. He looked over at John’s sleeping form again, and something seemed wrong there as well. John lay too still, as if the sleep were feigned. He breathing was just as deep and even as it had been before, but now it seemed dishonest.

Kolya walked out of the bedroom and down the back stairs to the garden, down the path to the wine cellar. The door was locked—that had been very careless of John and Dr. McKay, thought Kolya. They should have known he would miss the key. Still, perhaps they had only gone there for a little tryst during the party—John liked excitement and the worry of getting caught would have provided some added spark for him. He had told Kolya the door was open when he got there, but if so, why was the key back on Kolya’s keychain?

Nothing looked amiss in the wine cellar. Kolya saw footprints in the dust on the ground, back in areas where no one but him usually walked, but it could have been Prenum. Then he walked up to the 1936 Grevey–Chambertins, whose contents were more precious than an eleven–year–old vintage. He ran his finger along the labels, 1936, 1936, 1940. That was wrong. Something crunched under his feet—broken glass.

He kneeled down on the ground and found more broken glass, and the shiny little sparkles of the naquadah sand. He slid his fingers under the lowest shelf and pulled out a larger piece of glass with the label 1936 on it. Too big a coincidence—this McKay must be after bigger game than John. And John was helping him.

He went back into the house and stopped at his study to pick up his revolver. The weight felt good in his hand. Too long he’d been hosting parties and making political deals—but this, holding a gun, planning to kill—this was what he was made for. He would have liked to strangle John where he slept, but he wasn’t entirely sure who would win such a contest, not after years of sloth, even if he had the element of surprise on his side.

He walked up the stairs quickly. The thick carpeting muffled every step, but somehow Sora knew something was amiss, and put her head out of her door. She met him at the top of the stairs. “What are you doing?” she asked. She looked down at the gun in his hand.

“You were right about John,” said Kolya. “I’m going to take care of it.”

“I knew it,” said Sora. Kolya wanted to smack that smirk off her face, but first he had to deal with John. “Was it McKay?” she asked. “Your little princess has a bit on the side?”

“No. Probably. That’s not the point.” He walked toward John’s room. Sora got in front of him.

“What is it then? You can’t just kill him.”

“Watch me.”

“Someone is going to come asking questions.”

“Then I’ll pay them off. I’ve done it before.”

A sour look crossed Sora’s face, and Kolya knew she was thinking of Ladon. “What did he do, then?”

Kolya debated telling her, but Sora would be on his side no matter what. There was no percentage in her turning him in to the rest of the conspirators. “The man who I’ve invited into my home, who is this minute sleeping in my bed, is an American spy.”

Sora stared at him for a moment then reached out and took the gun out of his hand. “Come with me,” she said. “We have to think about this.”

“It was very stupid of me,” said Kolya, as he followed her into her room.

“Yes, I see now. They picked him because of his father, because they knew he’d be able to get into our circle here, and because of your infatuation.” She gave him a hard look. Kolya narrowed his eyes at her, but couldn’t argue the point. He had been blinded by his infatuation, by ego, proud that Sheppard would come back to him.

“If they find out,” he said, “they’ll do to me what they did to Ladon. An accident on a boat, a cliff, something, and I’ll be gone. I could go to Uruguay, but even there they have spies. All of Europe is closed to me because of the war.”

“They won’t find out. Unless you do something foolish like shoot him. Then they might. They won’t suspect anything unless you tip your hand. They would never imagine that you would do something so stupid as ask an American agent to live with you.”

“Watch yourself,” said Kolya, in tones that had made her cringe in the past, but now she just looked back at him evenly, and Kolya had to admit she was right. “So I’m just supposed to live with this? No. He dies.”

“Yes, but not by bullets. I’ll find a better way.” She licked her lips. “You must not let on to him that you know, but also, he must not take any more information back to his superiors. If he becomes ill for a time, and then succumbs . . . yes, that would place you above suspicion, and everyone would think that he had picked up something because of his unfortunate lifestyle.”

Kolya nodded slowly. He could chastise Sora for her insults later, when he no longer depended on her discretion. “Yes,” he said, “that will serve.”

***

John woke up to Kolya gone, but that was usual. He slept poorly, while John feigned sleep to avoid his attentions. When John could lie in bed no longer, he put on a pair of linen pants and a shirt that he didn’t bother to button, intending to spend the morning by the pool until he could leave to make the meeting with Rodney.

Noon passed as John watched the trees near the ocean wave in the distance, and let his mind go blank. Prenum brought him a glass of iced tea and he drank it without thinking then went into the house to change into something appropriate to going into the city.

Kolya gave him no trouble about leaving, simply kissed him on the cheek. “Be back before dinner,” he said. “I have some people coming, who I’d love for you to meet.”

John swigged the last of the tea and went up to dress. He took more care with it than usual. Kolya liked him in everything he wore, but he wanted Rodney to see him as he had before, whatever had drawn him in. He felt a touch of dizziness as he knotted his tie but didn’t give it much thought.

He felt worse when the driver dropped him off near the post office downtown. He got into a cab as soon as the driver had pulled away and went out to the marina to meet Rodney. Rodney had his hat pulled down low over his head and was squinting out over the horizon.

“The material was naquadah,” he said when he saw John. “Caldwell wants to find out where it’s coming from. We thought we’d found all the big German stockpiles, but clearly not, and we can’t risk any of these splinter groups getting their hands on it. Or the Russians.”

“All right,” said John. He sagged suddenly against the pylons, as all the strength left his limbs.

Rodney didn’t look over at him. “This is starting a little early, even for you,” he said nastily.

“That’s right, I’m drunk. I’d get drunk when there’s sensitive work to be done.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Yes, well, you’d have to drink too, if you were doing what I was.”

Rodney looked at him then, hurt and concern warring on his face. “I’ve been transferred back to Washington,” he said.

“Oh,” said John. His head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton. “You never wanted to be here anyway.”

“They want me to see if I can trace the origin of this naquadah. There are ways . . . Well, we didn’t think the German project had advanced enough to come by this in certain ways, but, there is a possibility that they’ve . . . I can’t tell you, but you’ll know it if you see it. Are there any other locked rooms besides the wine cellar?”

John looked at him blankly, and Rodney rolled his eyes. “Never mind,” he said. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. You should take it easy on the liquor though. Do you know what that stuff does to your liver? Not pretty.”

John got himself home in a daze. So Rodney was leaving. That should have made him angry or hurt or something, but all John could feel was the pounding in his head, and a dizziness that left little room for thought. He climbed up the stairs to his room and collapsed into bed.

***

Rodney walked quickly back to the office to confront Caldwell. He wanted to get back to Washington, sure, but leaving John like this . . . Rodney had seen him drunk before, seen him crazy and out of control, but never so blank and dazed. Either he was drinking more now than he ever had before, which was worrisome in and of itself, or something worse had happened.

“Mr. Sheppard is drinking?” said Caldwell. “That doesn’t sound so out of character for him.”

“It was different this time,” said Rodney. “We have to get him out. I don’t think he can continue there.”

Caldwell just fixed him with a look, and handed him his tickets back to Washington. “You have a week to clear out your hotel room and make arrangements to return, and I want you around just in case Mr. Sheppard won’t talk to his new contact, but I think we’ve got him pretty well in hand now.”

He went back to his hotel. It looked even smaller and dingier now. The heat and humidity of Rio made everything wilt, and he missed his cat and the dark solitude of his apartment in Washington. Soon he would be back in his lab. He didn’t even need the week, but maybe John would ask for him back, and that was enough reason to stay.

The week dragged by slowly, and Rodney checked in with Caldwell every day to see if John had met with his new contact. “It’s been seven days,” he said at the end of it. “He’s never missed so many contacts.”

“Well, you said yourself he was drinking again.”

“I don’t think his drinking was ever such a problem before. We have to make sure he’s okay.” He knew he sounded more worried than he should, but he couldn’t keep the panic out of his voice.

“This is a delicate situation—maybe he just doesn’t want to arouse suspicion with Kolya.”

“No, it’s something worse. You know what those people are like. They could kill him while we’re all here twiddling our thumbs.”

“You’re a born pessimist, McKay.”

Rodney rubbed his forehead. “Yes, that’s true, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“I’ll just make a social call. Kolya knows that John—er, Mr. Sheppard is a friend.”

Caldwell raised his eyebrows. “Don’t take any chances.” He handed Rodney his sidearm.

“I can’t shoot,” said Rodney, but he took it anyway.

“Don’t tell Kolya that.”

The embassy’s driver took him out to Kolya’s place just as the sun was setting. Lights winked on in the huge house. Rodney looked up to where John had told him his room was, but it stayed dark. Maybe he wasn’t looking in the right place.

He knocked on the door, and the butler Prenum answered, looking, if possible, even more smug and superior than the first time Rodney had come.

“I’m here to see Mr. Sheppard,” said Rodney.

“I’m afraid he’s indisposed,” said Prenum with a sniff.

“Yes, yes, that’s why I’m here. I heard he was sick. I wanted to look in on him.”

Prenum looked down his nose at Rodney, quite a feat considering they were the same height. He waited a moment longer, the sighed and let Rodney into the foyer, giving him instructions to wait where he was.

When Prenum went into the study, Rodney got up and walked up the stairs. He glanced around every few paces but the only thing he heard was the low buzz of men’s voices from the study. He opened the door to John’s room and saw him lying in bed, staring fixedly up at the ceiling. Rodney rushed over and turned on the bedside lamp.

“John! John!” he said. John turned to look at him but his eyes couldn’t quite focus.

“Rodney,” he said weakly, with a heartbreaking attempt at a smile. “You came.”

“I couldn’t leave you here. What’s wrong with you?”

“Poison,” said John. “Once I realized . . .” he paused, out of breath just from talking. “Once I realized, I tried to leave, but I passed out in the entrance way. They put me up here, and I couldn’t get out. I tried.”

“Come on,” said Rodney. “Try to sit up.” Rodney pulled John’s legs around so his feet were on the floor then sat next to him. He tugged on John’s shoulder until John was sitting up.

“I thought you were going back to Washington,” said John. He put his hand on Rodney’s chest.

“I couldn’t. Not without making sure you were okay.”

“You love me,” said John, slurring his words. His eyes were half closed and his head nodded forward.

“Yes, you idiot,” said Rodney.

“Don’t worry, Rodney,” said John. “I love you, too.”

That gave Rodney the energy he needed to put John’s arm over his shoulder and haul him out of bed. John slowly shifted his weight around until he was on his feet, but just barely.

“The naquadah,” said John suddenly. “It comes from the Imorez mountains. They found a cache there.”

“Come on,” said Rodney. “One foot in front of the other. You can do it.” Rodney’s heart was pounding. John didn’t seem like he would make it even a few steps, let alone the vast and empty distance down the stairs and through the foyer.

“Kolya found out,” said John, as they made their slow and painful process across the floor of his bedroom. “But he can’t let the others know, or they would kill him, like they killed Ladon.”

“That makes sense, now shut up and save your energy for walking.”

John stopped and his head lolled forward again. “Say it,” he said. “I want to hear you say it.”

“What? Oh.” He kissed John’s forehead. “I love you,” he said. Rodney couldn’t keep John upright any longer, and he slumped to the floor. The crash he made drew several footsteps. Rodney kneeled over John and slapped his face. “Wake up,” he said urgently. He kissed John in case that might give him some motivation to move, but it didn’t work, although John did smile. Rodney couldn’t help but smile a little with him, even in this dire situation.

The door burst open and Sora came in. “What do you think you’re doing?” she cried.

“I’m getting him out of here,” said Rodney. “You can help me, or I can tell all of your uncle’s guests who John is working for.” Sora’s face went white. She bent down and put her shoulder under John’s arm and together they walked him out and down the stairs into the foyer.

The meeting in the study was breaking up, and Kolya came out with the rest of the Germans behind him. “What is this?” asked Kolya. He elbowed Sora out of the way and put Sheppard’s arm over his shoulder.

“Mr. Sheppard is ill,” said Rodney loudly. “He called me and asked me to visit and when I got here he needed to be taken to the hospital.”

“You think I’m just going to let you do this?” hissed Kolya. “I should have you killed right now.”

“Not before I tell your friends exactly who you invited into your home, who has been listening to all your conversations. If they killed Ladon over a little nervousness, just think what they’d do to you.”

Kolya blanched, but recovered quickly enough. “You’d still be dead.”

Rodney summoned up reserves of courage he didn’t know he had and shrugged nonchalantly. “I think it would be worth it.”

Kolya looked at Rodney hard for a moment, across John’s semi–conscious body, and decided not to call his bluff. “We’re just taking him to the doctor,” he said, loudly enough for the assembled conspirators to hear. “He’s not well.”

Rodney looked around at the assembled men. Cowen in particular had his brows drawn together, and he gave Kolya an unfriendly look. Sora went over to him and put her hand on Cowen’s arm, but Cowen would not be put off. He took a half–step forward before Idos put his hands on Cowen’s shoulders and restrained him.

Kolya helped Sheppard out to the embassy car and put John in the back seat. Rodney slid in next to him and slammed the door.

“I must go with you,” said Kolya. Rodney looked him up and down, tapped on the glass and signaled the driver to go. Kolya put his head in the open window. “You know what they’re going to do to me,” he said. “Take me with you, please. I’ll testify . . .”

“I don’t think so,” said Rodney. The driver put his foot on the gas and left Kolya behind, panting in the parking lot.

Cowen and Idos came out on the front steps. “There’s no phone in his room to call Dr. McKay,” said Cowen. “Why would you lie about something like that?”

“Please come back in the house, Mr. Kolya,” said Idos. “We have much to discuss.”

  
 **Epilogue.**

It didn’t take long for Rodney to drive the nurses and doctors in the hospital in Rio crazy with his questions and badgering. The translator from the embassy gave up in disgust, but Rodney still followed them around asking for news on John until one of the doctors who spoke English pulled Rodney into his office and explained that John had been poisoned with digitalis, but would be recovering soon.

Caldwell hardly noticed Rodney hanging around the hospital, since he was busy following up on John’s leads. The Brazilian government had arrested Sora for poisoning John, but of Kolya there was no sign. While Rodney waited to see John, Caldwell dispatched a team to the Imorez Mountains. They hadn’t heard anything back, and Caldwell said that if the local gendarmes were being bribed well enough by the Germans, they never would.

On the second day in the hospital, long after Rodney had developed a crick in his neck from sitting in the waiting room chairs, they let him go in to see John. He didn’t look nearly as bad as Rodney had feared, in fact, he looked annoyingly cheerful.

“You look terrible,” he said when he saw Rodney.

“I was worried about you,” Rodney burst out. The noise drew one of the nurses from down the hall. She peered in, looking concerned, but Rodney waved her off.

“Is that any way to talk to a sick person?”

“You don’t look sick to me.” He sat down next to John and started eating the leftover food on his tray. “Well, except your hair. It’s kind of, uh, flat.” John reached up and touched his hair self-consciously, as Rodney knew he would. “You’re getting out of here tomorrow.” Rodney looked at John expectantly, but he didn’t say anything. “So, what do you want to do?”

“I gave up my US citizenship.” John shrugged. “So I guess I’m staying?”

“Oh, Caldwell’s taken care of that.” Caldwell had, in fact, kept the paperwork from going through at all. Rodney had to give him credit for that—he might not approve of John, but he’d still tried to do right by him.

“Don’t you have to get back to Washington?”

“I had to see if you were okay first. Don’t you . . . you were delirious, but I thought . . . ?” Well, what did it matter if John rejected him now? It would be better to know. “I thought you might want to come back with me. Stay with me. Find some gainful employment. I didn’t mean that like it sounded, just that you’re smart, you could do whatever you wanted.” Rodney was babbling and he knew it. He took a deep breath and looked pleadingly at John.

“Really?” said John slowly. “You want me to live with you?”

“With me, near me, whatever you want. Tell me if you don’t want to.”

John smiled, the first real smile Rodney had seen on him in weeks. “I want to,” he said.

“You’ll have to testify in Sora’s trial. And Kolya’s if he’s found,” said Rodney.

John’s smile faltered a little, but he nodded. “I’ll do that.”

“And the doctors said your heart was weakened by the poison,” said Rodney.

“How badly?”

“Well, you’ll have to be careful not to exert yourself too much.”

John frowned. “That could be a problem.”

“What? Why?”

“Most of my favorite activities involve a certain amount of exertion.”

“Oh,” said Rodney with a big grin. “Maybe you’ll have to let me do more of the work, then.”

***

Sora never stood trial, since she decided to testify against most of Kolya’s co-conspirators in exchange for a reduced sentence, so both Rodney and John flew back to Washington as soon as the doctors allowed John out of the hospital. Brazil extradited Cowen and Idos back to Washington for war-crimes tribunals, and Rodney spent the next few weeks preparing expert testimony until the prosecutor said that Rodney’s courtroom manner was alienating the judges, and called in Dr. Jackson to testify instead.

John found work as a waiter at one of the D. C. university clubs. He got great tips from a few of the patrons, and mediocre ones from most of them. He wished he could find something more. The happiness of coming home to Rodney’s apartment wouldn’t sustain him forever, not when Rodney worked even later nights at the lab then John did at the club.

If Caldwell ever said anything to Rodney about them living together, he never repeated it to John. Still, John couldn’t help wondering if Rodney were forced to chose between John and his career, which would win.

***

A few months later, Brazilian authorities finally found Kolya’s body, nearly unrecognizable after tossing in the surf for so long. Sora had identified him by the gold ring he wore on his forefinger. Caldwell said that she was now the mistress of one of Brazil’s biggest shipping magnates, under a very lenient house-arrest.

“I’m going to have to get a longer sofa,” said Rodney when he sat down and John put his head in Rodney’s lap. John’s feet hung off the end and Neutrino mewed in an annoyed tone whenever John shifted to get more comfortable.

“We could get a bigger apartment,” said John. “Now that I’m rich.”

Rodney swatted his shoulder. “You know the Brazilian government is going to confiscate a lot of that. And the US.” The will looked like it was going to hold up—John would get the pieces of Kolya’s estate that various governments had not yet already appropriated.

“There’ll still be plenty. So we could get a bigger place? Maybe have room for a dog?”

Rodney covered Neutrino’s ears with his hands. “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

“Oh, she’d do it for me, won’t you, fuzzball?”

The cat started nuzzling against John’s stomach. She liked John at least as well as she liked Rodney, which showed, Rodney thought, excellent taste on her part. “She’d do anything for you,” he said. “So would I.”

***

Rodney called him later that week. John had quit his job as a waiter and instead spent the past few days looking at townhouses in all the nicest areas of D. C.

“You have to come into the lab,” he said. He voice was full of glee, even through the scratchy telephone line. John put on his shoes and walked out into the misty Washington night. The lab was close to their apartment, just across the state line into Virginia, and John walked it, cutting across a few highway guard-rails to get there.

Rodney met him at the door to the lab and led John into a small hangar at the opposite end of the building from his lab.

“Dr. Jackson found this in Egypt,” said Rodney. He gestured at a large cylindrical item twice his height covered with several canvas tarpaulins. “He was working on translating some inscriptions when the war started, and then Egypt was overrun with every kind of—well, you know that, and it doesn’t matter now, because he found it!” Rodney was beaming and more excited than John had ever seen him. He bounded over to it, and pulled the tarps off.

“It’s a . . .,” said John. It looked like some kind of vessel, like a tiny submarine.

“We think it’s a ship,” said Rodney. “But no one has been able to turn it on. Dr. Jackson’s team used a crane to get it out and shipped it here.”

“Why did you bring me here? I’m sure I don’t have security clearance to see this.” John had to look away from it. He flexed his hands. They itched to touch this thing.

“I want you to touch it,” said Rodney. “It’s Ancient technology. It will respond to you.”

John backed away. “No, I can’t do this,” he said, shaking his head. The reaction was visceral—suddenly he didn’t want anything to do with this. His father wanted him to do stuff like this, always asked him to ‘use his talents for the cause.’

“Please.” Rodney gave him a beseeching look. He was too good at that, and John found himself losing his resolve. “You don’t have to do anything else.”

John walked up to the device slowly. What harm could it do? And it would make Rodney stop looking at him like that. John put his hand on it, near where it looked like a hatch should open. He felt a faint humming, like the thing recognized him, but it was probably just the vibration from the basement generators transmitted up through the floor.

“Nothing,” he said, but even as he spoke, the sound of metal sliding against metal drowned out his voice and the hatch opened. John forgot his objections and walked into the vessel. This was almost a living thing, not like the dead and broken bits his father always wanted him to play with.

“I really don’t have security clearance for this,” said John, this time sadly. Suddenly, the idea of having this taken away from him, was more than he could stand. All around him panels lit up like they recognized him, and he could see the cockpit and the vessel’s controls in front of him.

Rodney followed him in. “They’ll have to give it to you now,” he said, his voice hushed with awe.

“Everyone knows homosexuals are a security risk,” said John, bitterly. He wanted this now, more than he’d ever wanted anything, except maybe Rodney. This ship was something that needed him. It wasn’t a weapon, wouldn’t be used for killing his father’s friends or his own countrymen. It was . . . exploration.

“That isn’t going to matter,” said Rodney, following John in. “Every rule has exceptions. What do you think it does?”

“I think she wants to fly,” said John. “And she wants me to fly her.”

“Caldwell gave this project to me,” said Rodney. “You can fly it anywhere. After I make sure it’s safe.”

“She’s safe,” said John. The panels told him that aside from needing some oil near the hatch, she was flight-worthy. “She wants to take us to the stars.”


End file.
